


O Mine Enemy

by KirbyLane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hurt Harry Potter, Hurt Severus Snape, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Harry Potter, Mentor Severus Snape, Mentor/Protégé, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, POV Harry Potter, Parental Severus Snape, Protective Severus Snape, Seer Harry Potter, Severitus, Severitus-inspired, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Spy Severus Snape, Website: Potions and Snitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 61
Words: 373,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29013294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KirbyLane/pseuds/KirbyLane
Summary: When Harry finds an injured Snape on his doorstep and must hide him from the Dursleys, he has no idea that this very, very bad day will be the start of something good.Harry and Snape are thrown together by annoying relatives, a series of strange dreams, and Voldemort's latest hunt for Harry, but their greatest challenge may well be surviving each other. This will be a long summer unless the two can find a way to work together. A slow-burn enemy-to-mentor story.Alternate 6th summer (and part of the school year): post-OotP; ignores HBP and DH. No slash, no romance. NOW COMPLETE!
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 172
Kudos: 461





	1. Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> ABOUT THIS STORY:
> 
> I wrote the first 21 chapters of O Mine Enemy in 2007, then took it up over a decade later and finished it in 2021. It’s a labor of love—please enjoy!
> 
> Canon notes: I plotted and began writing this story before books 6 and 7 were published. Horcruxes didn’t even exist yet! Everything up until the end of Order of the Phoenix is considered canon here. Beyond that, this story may be similar in some ways to the final two books in JK Rowling’s series (most notably, Snape’s background is very close to full series canon), but other events and backstories will be different (i.e., no Horcruxes or Deathly Hallows, Harry doesn’t own Grimmauld Place, etc.). 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Just my way of coping with not getting everything I wanted out of JK Rowling’s world. (Not that her world isn’t amazing.) 
> 
> Happy reading!

_"Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise…"_  
**_Micah 7:8, KJV_ **

* * *

“ _Crucio!_ ”

He lifted the curse, but not for long. He watched with glee as the traitor writhed in pain, his body shuddering during the brief respite.

How he loved the agony caused by this simple curse. He remembered with fondness his youthful days of experimenting with torture curses, and he knew no joy comparable to the absolute ecstasy of casting this one.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

He laughed. He was angry, no mistaking that, but his rage at the newly discovered traitor had found an outlet in his favorite curse.

“My Lord…” came a hesitant voice at his side. 

An interruption. His rage bubbled to the surface again, and turning, he found a new object for its relief.

“ _Crucio!_ ” The rat-like man dropped to the ground, screaming in pain. “You dare to interrupt me, Wormtail?”

“M—my Lord, I have brought th—the information y—you desired…” the small man stuttered, shaking from the effects of the curse, “about P—Potter…”

He reached the rat in two graceful strides and snatched the papers from the shorter man’s trembling hands. Yes…yes, it was all here. His need to cast torture curses abated as a feeling of impending triumph replaced it. They had wasted enough time already; they must put the plan into action.

“Bella,” he hissed, seeking out his most trusted follower. “Wormtail begins watch in one hour. We strike the next time the boy leaves the house. You know what to do then. Follow _the plan_.” His lips twisted in anticipation of this, his final encounter with the Boy Who Lived—a boy who was about to prove more useful alive than he himself could ever have imagined.

A sudden commotion occurred to his left. “He’s getting away!” a voice called.

He turned too late, as the tortured traitor stumbled to the edge of the clearing and Apparated away. “You fools,” he thundered, rage taking over once again. “He can’t have gone far in this state. Find him and when you do, bring his dead body to me!”

His mood properly spoiled, he searched for a new victim, any victim.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

Harry Potter awoke with a start, his head throbbing in pain. A vision, he realized with a groan as he rubbed his burning scar. He winced as the pounding in his head was matched by a firm pounding on his bedroom door.

“Get up, you lazy boy! You have five minutes to get downstairs to help Petunia with breakfast…OR ELSE!” Uncle Vernon had taken to tacking on that last bit to every order lately. He probably thought it made him sound more threatening, but whatever was included in the “or else” threat had never been made quite clear to Harry, so he didn’t let it bother him too much.

Harry sighed. “Yes, Uncle Vernon.” No matter how much he hated being treated like a house-elf, sometimes it was best to swallow his pride and fly under the radar…and with this headache, it would probably be best to avoid getting on Uncle Vernon’s bad side today.

Pushing the vision aside to think about later, Harry hurriedly dressed and rushed downstairs and into the kitchen, where Petunia already had eggs, bacon, and Dudley’s favorite pancakes cooking on the stove. “Took you long enough,” she sniffed without looking up.

Harry set the table and put out a pitcher of orange juice without comment. This summer had been predictably awful, but at least he and the Dursleys had developed a routine of sorts. As long as he did whatever chores he was assigned and stayed out of their way, they mostly left him alone. Sure, Uncle Vernon like to grab hold of Harry’s arm and shake him for effect most times he yelled “or else,” but Aunt Petunia hadn’t tried to swing any frying pans at his head lately, and Dudley seemed to have outgrown his desire to use Harry as a punching bag. It probably also helped that Harry was so despondent over the loss of Sirius that he kept forgetting his usual urge to be defiant. Whatever the reasons, his summer with the Dursleys had been almost tolerable.

Harry winced at the pounding footfalls on the stairs, followed by his cousin’s loud entrance into the kitchen. Dudley demanded extra eggs and pancakes while he squeezed his large bottom onto a chair at the table. Harry barely managed not to roll his eyes as Aunt Petunia rushed to her sweet little Dudders and deposited more than half of the cooked food onto his plate. Ever since Dudley had managed to lose enough weight to fit into his school uniform, Petunia had found it difficult to force him to continue his diet, and in consequence, he was quickly gaining back the weight he had lost.

“That’s my boy,” Vernon said happily as he took his own seat at the breakfast table. “Got to keep up your strength for the big match next weekend. None of those puny runts will stand a chance.”

Harry sat in his usual spot, and Petunia scraped a small portion of eggs onto his plate before dividing the rest between herself and Uncle Vernon. She set the plates of bacon and pancakes out of Harry’s reach, and he knew better than to make a grab for either one. He glumly stabbed his eggs with a fork. Dudley’s diet may have been over, but Aunt Petunia had conveniently forgotten that Harry wasn’t on one.

Breakfast passed in a blur of conversation between the Dursleys, but Harry couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. It’s not as if they wanted him to join in anyway. His mind drifted back to the vision he’d had that morning. He couldn’t remember too many details—something about a traitor, a bit of torture. There wasn’t much to it, but he deliberated over whether to tell someone about it. The urge to owl Sirius welled up so suddenly inside him that he shoved the thought aside as quickly as he stood up from the table.

“May I be excused?” He interrupted Uncle Vernon’s play by play retelling of Dudley’s latest boxing victory and waited only long enough for Petunia’s sharp nod before rinsing off his plate in the sink and sprinting upstairs to the relative peace of his room. He threw himself onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He tried to clear his mind the way Snape had continually urged him to do last spring, but unfortunately, he still didn’t have any clue how to do it. For once he wished he had paid closer attention to those Occlumency lessons. An empty mind had to be better than his too-full mind, images of the battle at the Ministry always lurking around the edges, ready to crash into his thoughts without warning.

Harry took another breath, closed his eyes, and tried again to clear his mind…but once again he failed, just like he had every day since summer had begun.

It was just as well, as fifteen minutes and another rude awakening by Vernon later, Harry found himself standing next to his uncle in the backyard, staring out at the garden. The very large, very weed-filled garden.

“Every weed,” the man was saying. “Every last one. And then the front yard. Understand, boy?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry muttered out of habit, though his uncle was already stomping back into the house, keys jangling in his pockets as he readied to leave for the office.

Harry sighed, rolled up his baggy sleeves, and got to work. Weeding wasn’t so bad, really. Being outside, breathing the fresh air… Even with the hot sun beating down on his back, it was loads better than being locked up in his bare room all summer. When he focused on the repetitive motion of pulling, discarding, pulling, discarding, he could even almost imagine that nothing had changed since last year. He was still the Dursleys’ house-elf, but Sirius was alive and merely biding his time until his name was cleared and he could whisk Harry away to have a family of his own.

Harry shook his head in self-reproach as he imagined this. He was fifteen—almost sixteen. He’d already faced down Voldemort multiple times, and a little over a year from now, he’d be of age. He wasn’t a little kid in need of a mummy and daddy to tuck him in at night. Still…although he would never, ever admit it aloud…a large part of him always had and always would long for exactly that.

How pathetic was that?

He frowned and tore at the weeds with a sudden fierceness that didn’t bode well for a particularly bright chrysanthemum that got in his way. Only the thought of Aunt Petunia’s face if she saw it made him take a few more deep breaths and deliberately slow his movements. It wouldn’t do Harry any good to get into more trouble with the Dursleys, he reminded himself.

It also wouldn’t do him any good to wish for a life he would never have. Almost unbidden, familiar words from long ago came to mind…

_It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live._

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even now, years after Dumbledore had spoken those words to Harry in front of the Mirror of Erised, they had an amazing power to ground him. His parents and godfather were gone, yes—but he was still here. More importantly, so were his friends. He had a life to live, and he couldn’t live it while he clung to the past and dwelt on the might-have-beens. He steeled his shoulders and picked weed after weed with as close to a clear mind as he had managed all summer.

* * *

By midday, the garden was looking good enough that Harry chanced a break. Petunia and Dudley were home, he knew, but thankfully were nowhere in sight as he helped himself to a drink of water in the kitchen.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and smiled in relief as he placed the cool glass against his scar. It hadn’t outright burned much this summer, but it had been prickling every so often. Harry tried not to think too much about Voldemort’s attempts to possess him little more than a month ago, but he did wonder if it had messed with their connection somehow. Whether it had strengthened or weakened it remained to be seen.

An odd clanging sound startled him, interrupting his thoughts, and he quickly gulped down the rest of the water in his glass before Aunt Petunia could catch him dirtying up her kitchen with his grubby hands and shoes. He set down the glass, wiped his hands on his dirty shirt—which barely helped—and had just reached the back door when he heard it again. He stopped, confused and alert. Oddly, it sounded like it was coming from the front door.

He absently groped for the first bit of metal his fingers could find and held it over his head…just in case…as he quietly made his way down the hall and to the door to investigate. The wooden door was still, the entry way perfectly clean and free of disturbance, but years of being hunted by the world’s most dangerous wizard had taught Harry the importance of being on his guard. He cautiously looked out the peephole.

Nothing.

Harry nearly laughed at himself as he lowered the “weapon” in his hand—a harmless wire whisk. He shook his head in wry amusement. He was becoming as paranoid as Moody these days. He began to turn away, when suddenly, several long pale fingers reached through the mail slot.

“Oh, sh—” Harry stumbled back, heart racing.

“Potter!” a voice rasped. The fingers, bloody and scratched, trembled as they gripped the mail slot. Harry blinked, unsure whether to attack the hand with his whisk or charge upstairs to try to free his wand from his locked trunk. A pair of dark, bloodshot eyes peered through the thin opening of the slot. “Potter,” it repeated, and this time the voice was all too familiar.

“P—Professor Snape?” Harry croaked, now more confused than startled. What on earth would _Snape_ be doing on Harry’s doorstep?

Snape was speaking again, so low that Harry had to strain to make out his words. “Must…not leave…stay…house…” His words trailed off, the hand and face disappearing as suddenly as they had appeared. Harry heard a dull thud over the clang of the mail slot falling closed.

Harry stood in place for a long moment, too stunned to move. Finally jerked into action by a sound from upstairs, he scrambled to the door and pulled it open to peer around the door jam. He nearly retched at the sight before him. An unconscious Snape was strewn in a dirty, bloody, bruised heap. From the dried blood on the side of the step, Harry wondered how long the professor had already been there. Hopefully not long enough for a neighbor to notice. Harry gave a quick Petunia-like glance around the neighborhood.

He gave Snape’s body a slight poke, but the blood disturbed Harry only slightly more than what the man was wearing. The Death Eater robes brought back a string of better-forgotten memories for Harry, even if Snape had apparently ditched the mask prior to arriving.

Only the thought of the Dursleys’ likely reactions to finding a wizard on their front step moved Harry into action. He rolled the body over and hooked his arms under Snape’s, dragging him inside. It would have been a lot easier if he hadn’t been small for his age, Harry groused to himself after dragging the unconscious man only partway down the hall.

He felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as Dudley’s big feet pounded in the upstairs hallway. He could be a matter of seconds from bounding downstairs, Aunt Petunia in tow. And Harry had absolutely no clue what to do with Snape’s limp body.

Or did he…?

Harry impulsively flung open the closest door and the only one he knew for sure the Dursleys would not open – the cupboard under the stairs. He could still fit in there as long as he didn’t stand to full height, so the space would be sufficient to hide a Death Eater’s unconscious body from a few Muggles for an hour or so. It’s just a good thing that Snape was unconscious. If he knew he’d been tossed into a cupboard like a sack of potatoes, Harry predicted that not getting into advanced Potions would be the least of his worries next year.

He sighed with relief as the cupboard door closed on its occupant…until he noticed the trail of dirt and blood he had left in his wake by dragging Snape’s body through the hallway. He scrambled to the kitchen as fast as his legs would carry him, making a beeline for the towels. He barely managed to clean up the worst of the blood streaks when the slam of an upstairs door was followed by the telltale stomp of Dudley’s footfalls on the stairs.

Harry winced, hoping that Snape wasn’t easily awakened from whatever state he was in.

Dudley stopped short at the sight of Harry on his hands and knees in the hallway. “Eww. Mum! Harry got mud all over the house!” He whined at the top of his lungs but looked at Harry with a grin on his face. He loved to see his cousin in trouble, and Harry had just made it far too easy for him this morning.

Harry quickly hid the blood-streaked towels in a plant by the front door while Dudley’s back was turned, and he braced himself for a world of trouble at the traces of mud that were still left. No point in hiding, he figured, and resignedly waited for his summer to officially get worse.

At least Uncle Vernon hadn’t been home, he decided later while on his hands and knees cleaning and polishing Petunia’s floor. His aunt was furious at him for traipsing mud through the house, and he’d received quite a wordy lecture. But while Vernon would have given him a firm, maybe painful, shake with an “or else” rant, Petunia had simply jabbed her bony finger into Harry’s chest with a “Get. To. Work. Now! And Clean. This. Mess!”

Even so, he hadn’t finished the weeding yet, and now he had to see to the floor as well. If he didn’t get both done by the time his uncle came home, there would be hell to pay.

Harry could feel his temper starting to rise at the unfairness of the situation, and it took all the willpower he possessed to fight it down. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered to drag Snape inside in the first place. He hated the man. If he had an enemy other than Voldemort, it was most definitely Snape. Maybe he should have left him outside to clean up his own mess.

He gritted his teeth and scrubbed another line of dirt from the hallway floor.

* * *

Harry only had to wait an hour for Aunt Petunia and Dudley to leave the house. They didn’t say where they were going, but that was okay with Harry. He never cared where they went, as long as they stayed away for as long as possible

As soon as he heard the car pull away, Harry opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs and stood back in case Snape had woken, realized where he was, and decided to kill Harry. Fortunately, Snape’s limp arm fell from his side and hit the ground of the cupboard, attesting to his still-unconscious state. Harry let out the shallow breath he’d been holding and pulled the man shoulders-first out of the cupboard and around to the foot of the stairs.

Not for the first time, he wished he were allowed to use magic during the summer. The stairs loomed above him, and his shoulder was acting up from where Uncle Vernon had continually jerked it these past few weeks. His headache, though not as pounding as when he’d first woken up, had never completely left.

Nevertheless, he had to get Snape upstairs to his room, and he had to do it now. Harry figured he had a good few hours before anyone got home, but he was expected to be weeding that entire time, too.

He sighed as he sat on the first step, hooked his arms under Snape’s from behind, and scooted first himself, then Snape, up one step…two steps…and three. He continued that way up the entire flight of stairs and couldn’t help feeling some satisfaction at how sore Snape’s bum was going to be when he woke.

By the time he’d pulled Snape into his bedroom, his shoulder was throbbing in beat with his head. One look at the bed, and Harry decided that Snape was staying on the floor. There was no way he’d be able to lift him onto the bed and still have enough good will left in him to see to his injuries.

Not that he had much good will in him toward the Potions master to begin with. An image of Sirius rose in his mind, and a sudden wave of fury engulfed him. Harry knew that Snape was one of the main reasons Sirius had felt driven to charge off to the ministry that night. If Snape hadn’t taunted Sirius about his inability to help the Order, he might never have left the safety of his home to follow Harry.

If not for Snape, Sirius might still be here.

As one, loads of memories, both in and out of class, rushed through his head of the spiteful professor and his bullying ways. Harry felt the remainder of any good will abruptly leave. Hadn’t he already done more than enough in bringing him up here? Not to mention that no thanks to Snape, Harry would be lucky if he ate at all today. And it’s not like Snape would have a problem leaving Harry to die if the roles were reversed.

“Ha! You’d probably draw up a chair just to watch me die!” Harry exploded at the still-unconscious man. “Well, you can just stay there and suffer for all I care! And believe me—I _don’t_ care!”

Harry stormed out, feeling the tiniest bit avenged for the loss of his godfather and for years of ridicule and embarrassment. He could get rather used to a Snape who couldn’t talk.

His resolve faltered when he stared down at the staircase and hall to a brand new trail of dirt spotted with blood. He closed his eyes against the pounding in his head and firmly decided that revenge or no, he was having a very, very bad day.


	2. An Inconvenient Conscience

The sun was hot on his skin, but the cool breeze more than made up for it. Harry lay flat on his back on the green grass, basking in the beautiful weather, and in that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care how angry Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be over how few weeds he’d managed to pull today. Cleaning up the stairs had taken so long that he’d already resigned himself to not being able to get enough weeding done to satisfy them. At this point, all he wanted to think about was how good the cool fresh air felt on his lessening headache and the relief in his shoulder at a much-needed break from scrubbing and cleaning and picking and pulling. He felt…almost happy.

The “almost” part he blamed on the intruder upstairs in his bedroom. He didn’t feel guilty for leaving Snape with his injuries. Not guilty _at all_ …or so he kept repeating to himself.

Why couldn’t he just forget about him and be completely happy right now? It wasn’t Harry’s fault Snape had gotten himself into trouble, after all. And Merlin only knew what help he thought he’d find at Harry’s house. _Serves him right_ , Harry said to himself and shoved aside his nagging conscience.

He closed his eyes tight against the sun and tried to think of anything but his unconscious professor. It turned out to be easier than he expected, for he was jolted out of his reverie in the next instant by a loud clatter in the street, followed by a piercing scream and the blare of a car horn. 

He jumped to his feet by instinct, reaching for his wand before he remembered that it was still upstairs. He cursed under his breath at the feeling of vulnerability, and he took stock of his surroundings.

He could see that a car had crashed into a tree a few houses down. Nearby, a child’s bicycle lay on its side in the street. 

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Where was the child?

He ran. He had to help. He had to make sure they were okay. Was anyone moving in the car? He couldn’t tell. Wait, there was something moving on the hood. Jumping off, running away. Too small to be a person—more like a…rat?

Harry skidded to a stop just shy of the sidewalk. A rat. Warning bells were going off in his head. A rat…

Harry had pushed the morning’s vision to the back of his mind in the chaos of the day, but it came rushing back as he surveyed the accident scene more closely. Something about Harry…and a plan…and Wormtail watching something. And…

Harry felt chilled all over as he recalled Voldemort’s words. _We strike the next time the boy leaves the house._

There was nobody in the car. No child near the bicycle. No one in sight except for a few neighbors beginning to peak their heads around their doors at the commotion.

His breaths were coming in short gasps now. Uncle Vernon had locked up his wand two days ago as a punishment for threatening Dudley. He had left the house, and he was defenseless. He spun around, fully expecting to see Death Eaters ready to snatch him or kill him or whatever “strike” meant to them.

No one was there, but he wasn’t about to push his luck. He sprinted back inside, dead-bolting the door behind him. 

He forced himself to breath calm, deep breaths. What else had he seen in his vision? Voldemort had spoken of a plan—a plan involving Harry. Before that, he had been torturing someone. He’d called him a traitor. But the traitor had gotten away, Apparated away just before Harry woke up. 

Snape’s words came back to him then. His weak voice had trailed off and Harry hadn’t fully absorbed—or cared, really—what he’d been trying to tell him. 

_Must…not leave…stay…house…_

It was obvious now what he had been trying to vocalize. The only logical conclusion was that Snape had been found out as a spy and tortured. If he was in fact the traitor in the vision, he must have barely had enough strength left to run outside Voldemort’s warded area to Apparate away. And when he did, he came to number four, Privet Drive. 

Professor Snape, after being thoroughly beaten and tortured, came to warn Harry. And now he was lying on Harry’s hard floor, maybe still bleeding from untended injuries.

The pangs of guilt he’d been trying to ignore came back in full force, joined with the horrible feeling of shame.

* * *

Snape was in the same place Harry had left him, flat on his back, eyes closed. Harry knelt beside him, not quite sure what to do. He hadn’t exactly been Healer trained. He certainly didn’t have any potions on hand. All he had were water, towels, and some pathetically small band-aids.

Plus, the prospect of having to actually touch the dirty, greasy Potions master didn’t exactly have him thrilled, no matter the semblance of gratitude he maybe, might possibly have felt…sort of…toward the man a few minutes ago.

Well, better just get to it, then.

The head was a logical place to start. Harry bit back his aversion at touching the git’s greasy head, forcing himself to quickly prod the back of his skull to feel for any bumps or cuts. That done, he gingerly dabbed smudges of blood from the man’s forehead with a damp towel. 

Carefully removing the Death Eater cloak from the still body, he rolled it up as small as he could and tossed it to the farthest corner under his bed. Snape’s clothes had stuck to the blood on Snape’s skin, and Harry resorted to cutting part of his shirt with scissors. He sucked in a breath at Snape’s dirt- and blood-strewn chest and arms. The blood was mostly dry, but he couldn’t tell where most of it had come from. 

The injuries actually weren’t as bad as he had thought once he got the dirt and blood pretty well wiped off. Other than the bruises, Snape had several cuts and scratches along his arms, most of which Harry figured were caused by his escape through the brush and branches. A few deeper cuts on his chest were probably the result of torture curses, but they didn’t look serious, as long as he could keep them from getting infected.

Probably the main part of the damage had been done to his nerves with the Cruciatus curse, Harry guessed.

He glanced over the rest of Snape’s body. There was no way he was removing his trousers, he quickly decided. Injured or no, Snape would never forgive him for that intrusion. He’d kill Harry the moment he woke up.

He still needed something to clean the wounds. He ran out of the room and returned with some rubbing alcohol from the bathroom cabinet. 

What now? Was he supposed to pour it over the wounds or was he supposed to put some on a cloth and just dab it on? Or something else? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hadn’t been exactly generous in giving him medicine or seeing to his injuries growing up, so when it came to the Muggle way of doing these kinds of things, Harry was pretty much lost.

He decided against pouring it directly on the skin. Aunt Petunia would be sure to notice if the whole bottle was missing. They counted _everything_ after he was alone in the house. Rather than locking him in his room and chancing “that odd-eyed freak” finding out about it, they’d taken to keeping meticulous track of every item of value or of food in the house, both before they left and after they returned. Of course, after about a month with no sign of anyone from the Order, they weren’t being quite so cautious about how they spoke to him or how many extra chores they handed out to him. Harry was actually surprised they _hadn’t_ taken to locking him in his room again. The main reason Harry didn’t outright defy them was that he knew he might be stuck here at least another month and it could get worse for him if he pushed too far.

Harry poured some rubbing alcohol on his last clean towel. It didn’t seem wet enough, so he poured some more and touched the towel to Snape’s scratched arm first—might as well start small. The arm twitched under his touch, startling Harry a little. He’d grown used to a still subject. He continued applying it to both arms and went on to his chest. The first cut was pretty deep—he should probably put a little more rubbing alcohol on the towel. He touched the wet towel to the cut, letting the excess liquid drip into the wound.

Snape’s eyes snapped open with a loud groan. He immediately pushed himself up, almost knocking into Harry, who scooted back quickly, upsetting the container of rubbing alcohol. He caught it up, but not before half its contents had spilled out onto the floor. He sighed. So much for Aunt Petunia not noticing.

“Potter,” Snape snapped, then immediately winced at the pain that caused. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing to me?” he demanded, lowering his voice. His arms were trembling slightly from the effort of holding himself up. Other than that, he looked alert. His narrowed eyes darted around the room to take in his surroundings, and Harry cringed at how the small room must look to Snape. His old beat-up desk was the nicest piece of furniture on the bare floor, and threadbare sheets lined the one small bed. At least the professor couldn’t see the bars on the window or the padlocked trunk from where he was sitting. Snape had to feel worse than he wanted to let on—the usually vigilant man hadn’t even attempted to turn around to take in the rest of the room.

“I…er…um—infection!” Harry held out the bottle. “It’s a Muggle way to clean cuts.”

Snape shifted his weight and snatched the bottle from Harry’s hands.

“Rubbing alcohol?” he sneered and scanned the back of the bottle before thrusting it back at Harry. “I do not need some fool Muggle potion.” He looked around the room again. “Where is Dumbledore?” he demanded.

“He’s not here, professor,” Harry spoke slowly, realizing that Snape must be confused. “You’re at my house, remember? You showed up on my doorstep—”

“I do not have a memory problem, Potter,” Snape snapped. “You did owl him, did you not? I would think even a meager brain such as yours would have thought of that?”

Harry bit back a retort. He actually _hadn’t_ thought of it. Not that it would have mattered.

“I sent out my owl last night—to the Order,” Harry added at Snape’s narrowed eyes. “I’m supposed to owl them every three days, and I told Hedwig to go to the Weasleys until I need her again. She likes it there—lots of room and hunting…” Harry realized he was rambling and rushed to explain, “anyway, she won’t be back for a couple days.”

Snape’s glare was downright hostile. 

“But you’re awake now, sir. You can Apparate…or make a Portkey…or something…”

Snape gave him a look of pure exasperation. “Look around, Potter! Do you see my wand? I cannot use what the Dark Lord has. And Apparition!” He snorted. “Are you really so daft? Dumbledore made anti-Apparition wards in and around this house the moment you moved in. In my weakened state, by the time I reached outside the wards, I’d never be quick enough to escape the dozens of Death Eaters who would have been instantly called the moment I stepped out the door.”

That must have reminded him of his initial purpose in coming there because Snape leaned forward as much as he could manage. “Potter, this house is being watched. You are not to leave under any circumstances. No outings of any kind! Do you understand? Nothing—I do not care in the slightest what parties you are planning to attend.”

Harry wanted to hand Snape a good hard curse for his superior authoritative tone, even if it did indicate he wasn’t as injured as Harry had first feared. But this was his opportunity to find out about Voldemort’s plan. Harry opened his mouth to interrogate Snape about what he knew and why Death Eaters hadn’t grabbed him earlier when they’d had the chance, but before he could get a sound out, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.

“Boy!” 

Harry sighed. Aunt Petunia must have seen all the unpicked weeds. Interrogation would have to wait. 

“Listen,” he rushed to explain, “My relatives don’t know you’re here. If they find out, well… Just stay in here, okay? And be quiet. They never come in this room if they don’t have to.”

“How surprising,” Snape said dryly. “Where exactly did you put me, the prison tower?” He scowled at yet another glance at his accommodations.

“Erm…just don’t leave, okay?” Harry repeated on his way to the door.

“I am not dying to explore your house, Potter. Go,” he snapped at Harry’s uncertain glance. “I won’t be leaving this room unless you put us all in danger by leaving this house.”

Harry shut the door as Snape slowly inched toward the bed.

“Boy!” Aunt Petunia’s voice was louder and shriller this time. Harry quickly replaced the rubbing alcohol on his way past the bathroom and took the stairs two at a time. If he was going to be yelled at, he wanted to be as far out of Snape’s hearing range as possible.

Aunt Petunia was waiting for him at the front door, her stance rigid at having to be kept waiting. Dudley shoved past him up the stairs with a box containing several new video games.

“Are you determined to be trouble today?” Petunia demanded. “First the mud, now this!” she held up a soiled towel between two fingernails, far away from her body.

Harry mentally kicked himself. He had forgotten about the towels he’d hidden in the plant earlier in the day.

“And you’ve barely even started on the weeds! Just you wait until Vernon gets home. Now, bring in Dudley’s new things and start working on the yard!” She pulled open the door and gestured for him to precede her. “Well? Don’t stand there—get going!”

Harry was glad he was just dealing with Aunt Petunia right then. She wasn’t near as threatening as Uncle Vernon or Dudley, both of whom didn’t have a problem at all with physical intimidation. Petunia hadn’t laid a hand on him since he’d hit his latest teenage growth spurt—except for the occasional finger jab, of course. When it came down to it, Aunt Petunia was pretty much all talk.

“Um, Aunt Petunia, I can’t go outside right now.” It was worth a try, anyway.

Aunt Petunia’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What did you say?” 

In that instant, Harry decided that a version of the truth was actually something he could use in this situation.

“Well, you see,” he began, sweetly over-respectful, “that bad wiz—I mean, you know, that bad guy back and out to get me—well, he’s got somebody watching the house, and if I go outside he’ll know I’m home and come out of his hiding place and use…” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “ _magic_.” That was probably enough to scare her, but he knew how to clinch it. “And then all the neighbors might see…”

Aunt Petunia slammed the door shut. “Be quiet! Do you want everyone to hear you!?” she trilled. “Get these towels cleaned up!” She shoved him further into the house, tiptoeing around to the living room to peer out the curtains, eyes wide.

Harry grinned as he left the room. Aunt Petunia was so distracted by his story, he could probably wheedle some extra food out of her. After all, he’d have to feed Snape too, for however long he was stuck here. Ha! If Snape had sneered at his room accommodations, he was going to be even less thrilled when he saw what was on the menu.


	3. Close Quarters

Harry watched Snape examine his soup as if it might come alive. The professor cautiously took a bite and promptly gagged.

“Are you trying to poison me, Potter?” he demanded, pushing aside the bowl of canned soup and slice of bread Harry had managed to secure from Aunt Petunia. Harry wished Snape would just eat it. He didn’t always get this lucky. The Dursleys weren’t exactly starving him, but he still didn’t know from day to day how much food he was going to get, and now with two mouths to feed…

“I’ll need clothes.” Snape abruptly abandoned the topic of food and appraised Harry’s thin frame, decked out in some of Ron’s old hand-me-downs. “Perhaps those of your uncle?”

Harry smirked. “You’ve never met Uncle Vernon, have you?”

Snape stared at him, his features impassive.

Harry erased his smirk. “Never mind. His clothes wouldn’t fit you, is all. Some of Dudley’s old clothes will have to do. They won’t be your fashion of choice, but…well, they’re clothes.” He rummaged around in his wardrobe for something that wouldn’t set Snape to sneering straight off. He settled on a button-down shirt that was a few years old so shouldn’t be excessively baggy on Snape’s adult frame, and a pair of trousers that would need to be held up with a belt but were still in pretty good shape. He handed both to Snape, along with a belt and some socks for good measure, then checked to make sure the coast was clear.

“Aunt Petunia will be downstairs for a while. I don’t know how long Dudley’s new stuff will keep him occupied. You can use the loo to clean up and change. Just…um, try to hurry.”

Snape gingerly limped to the loo and closed the door behind him without a word.

* * *

A few hours later, Harry stood in the kitchen watching water boil—not out of boredom, but with interest at the way it sort of mirrored real life. The way the bubbles started out so small, clinging to the edge of the pot, then rising and getting larger and more furious every second…well, it bore a striking resemblance to the growing rage he’d seen on Uncle Vernon’s face before Aunt Petunia had pulled him out of the kitchen to calm him down.

Only a few bits of their conversation drifted back through the kitchen, but it was enough to reveal that Aunt Petunia was trying to talk her husband out of dishing some punishment out on Harry. Not for the sake of “the boy,” of course. No, of course not. It was because “those freaks” might find out.

Harry felt a familiar rise of resentment toward the Dursleys. Would it have been so horrible for them to at least pretend to like having him around these past fifteen years? It seemed the least they could do for Petunia’s only sister’s only son. But instead they had to lock him up in a cupboard for ten years and literally behind bars the last five. Not to mention the chores and the bullying. The more he dwelt on it, the more awful memories he recalled.

The hum of the boiling water pulled him from his thoughts, and Harry welcomed the distraction of finishing dinner for the Dursleys. The methodical adding of ingredients—a little of this, a little of that, not so measured as in Potions—helped him to clear his mind, something he sorely needed in this house. 

Dinner was not a chore that he was usually made to do. Aunt Petunia actually prided herself on cooking elaborate dinners for her dear, darling Dudley. But he’d seen the opportunity to avoid his room’s current occupant and, despite Petunia’s suspicious glances, had hastily volunteered to help.

Not that he was apparently expected to entertain the man. After getting the necessary conversation out of the way, the professor had ignored Harry for the rest of the afternoon. Silent Snape was better than Snarky Snape, but still…if Harry had a say in the matter, he’d have voted for No Snape.

Of course, Harry’s reaction to the picture his professor made in his temporary outfit probably hadn’t helped matters. The shirt wasn’t so bad, if you didn’t count how worn it was, but the trousers were baggy—as Harry had suspected they would be—and they were far too short for the professor. He had looked so…un-Snape-ish. Harry hadn’t hidden his snicker, despite Snape’s narrowed eyes.

In retrospect, Harry thought with mounting dread, perhaps he should have been a mite more careful in upsetting the man. Unless a miracle happened, he’d be sharing sleeping quarters with him for the next two nights. All sorts of sobering thoughts entered his mind about things that Snape could to do him in his sleep. Maybe the Potions master was at this very moment hatching some elaborate plan to pay him back for every small infraction over the years.

Now completely filled with dread, he threw himself into having dinner on the table by the time a pale-faced Petunia and a purple-faced Vernon reentered the kitchen. Fast on their heels was Dudley, who plunked down at the table and without further ado, shoveled in his food as fast as possible so he could get back to his interrupted video game. Oblivious as usual, he didn’t have a clue that anything was amiss with the other three around the table.

Harry felt the tension but couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Vernon and Petunia may be angry with him for potentially bringing wizards into the neighborhood, but as long as they were feeding him and staying a reasonable distance away from him, things would be fine. Their hatred was nothing new.

Snape was the one he was worried about at the moment. The Potions professor hated him and was intelligent enough to do more harm than mere physical intimidation or empty threats would accomplish. Unlike the Dursleys, who were more talk than action, he knew from personal experience that Snape, if properly provoked, wouldn’t feel obligated to warn before striking.

By the time he was sent back upstairs, he’d imagined dozens of possible ways for Snape to exact revenge tonight, each one more horrid than the last. For the first time in years, Harry wished he could stay downstairs with his aunt and uncle.

Pausing outside his room, he took a deep breath, listened for any movement, and opened the door. The room was dark, but the outline of Snape’s motionless form could be seen on the bed.

Not willing to chance that he really had gone straight to bed, Harry pulled a flashlight from his desk drawer and inspected the floor—for what, he wasn’t sure. He felt like when he was five years old and one of Dudley’s friends had told him stories about a monster that lived in closets. Harry had, of course, slept in a dark cupboard for years by then and was really quite accustomed to it, but the idea had scared him so that for weeks he had nightmares of sharing the darkness with all sorts of terrible creatures. He’d foolishly hoped one time that going to Aunt Petunia would help. He’d learned long before then that he wasn’t loved like Dudley was, but he’d seen her soothe her own son from bad dreams, and he was still young enough to believe that things might change…that one day he would wake up and the Dursleys would love him, give him hugs, and maybe even buy him presents. 

Aunt Petunia had yelled at him for waking her in the middle of the night and locked him in his cupboard for the better part of three days “to help him get over his fears.”

Harry mentally shook himself from the memory. No use dwelling on the past, something he found himself doing a lot nowadays, ever since Sirius—NO. He stopped himself from going there. Of all the things he shouldn’t think about right then, his godfather topped the list.

He forced his mind back to the inspection of his room, not allowing it to wander past finding anything harmful Snape might have planted for him. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he pulled out a few old shirts from the wardrobe to spread on the floor for a make-shift bed.

Not used to turning in this early, he was nonetheless exhausted by the day’s events. Before he could even start to clear his mind, he felt himself drifting into a restful sleep and the precarious world of dreams.

* * *

The sky was clear above the Quidditch pitch, and Harry felt free, basking in the sun in mid-air. He was so relaxed, it took him a moment to remember he was in the middle of a Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. Players flew in a maddening frenzy below him, and he pulled his broom higher so that they looked like bees furiously flying around their hive. He wondered absently if bees ever had wars like people did.

A cheer rang out from the crowd as Gryffindor scored, and his thoughts shifted back to the game. Harry raised his arm in a silent cheer for his teammates and scanned over the pitch for the tiny, golden snitch. It sometimes took hours to locate the elusive snitch, but this time it took Harry only minutes to see a shimmering dot slightly lower in the sky than he was. He dove straight for it and reached out his hand…

“Potter.”

Harry stopped in mid-reach. He looked around. No one was there.

“Potter!”

He looked closely at the snitch, which hadn’t moved. It hovered in front of him like it wanted Harry to catch it. “Hello?” he tentatively asked the fluttering object.

“Potter, wake up!” Harry recognized the voice now as Professor Snape’s. Why on earth would a snitch be talking to him in Snape’s voice?

Harry reached out his hand once more for the snitch. Something unbelievably strong was compelling him to catch it. Something important would happen if he did, he just knew it.

“Potter!” Harry was practically jolted off his broom. No, wait. The broom was trying to buck him off. He held on for dear life. He had to. He had to catch the snitch!

“Oow!” A sudden burst of pain in his shoulder jolted Harry awake. Snape was sitting over him, shaking him. He stopped when he saw Harry’s eyes open.

Harry let out another yelp, this time in surprise, and scooted back toward the wall. The last remnants of his dream faded away. What in Merlin’s name was Snape doing hovering over him as he slept? What was he doing here in the first place? Why wasn’t he at Hogwarts?

It came back to him, then. He hadn’t quite adjusted to being awake, but he remembered with some vagueness the events of the day before.

“Now that you’ve decided to join the waking,” Snape snarled, “You may go to your own room.”

“Huh?” Harry’s brain was still fuzzy from sleep. What was Snape going on about?

“Your own room, Potter,” Snape spoke to him like he was a child, incapable of understanding simple details. “I do not need, nor do I desire, a nursemaid.”

With that, he pulled Harry up and shoved him out of the room in one smooth motion. Harry heard the click of the door behind him as he stood in the hall, still muddled from sleep and gently swaying on his feet.

_My own room? Didn’t Snape know—_

Ah.

Harry wasn’t sure whether to feel indignant or embarrassed. Of course Snape wouldn’t have realized that was Harry’s room—he’d never actually told him, had he? And to think—Snape had thought he’d slept on the floor—for what—to keep an eye on him? To keep an eye out _for_ him? Harry felt his face flush.

Well, whatever the reason, Harry’s embarrassment would be compounded tomorrow if he didn’t straighten this out right now. But more importantly, where else was he going to sleep? The Dursleys would have heart attacks if they woke up and found him sleeping in the hallway, or worse, on the freshly cleaned sofa.

Feeling a strong sense of déjà vu, Harry took a deep breath, rapped softly on the door, and opened it without waiting for a response. He closed the door quickly behind him—no sense waking the Dursleys—and took a small step inside.

Murder was written on Snape’s face as he sat up on the bed, and Harry gulped. His room had never before felt quite as small as it did right then.

“Do you have a hearing problem, Potter?” It was amazing, Harry thought, how such a quiet growl could seem so loud.

“No, sir. I…uh…” Putting thoughts together was pretty hard when one was talking to Snape while half asleep, Harry realized.

“Your eloquence astounds me, as usual.” The man rose to tower over Harry. His height alone actually wasn’t as threatening as Harry remembered. Harry may be small for his age, but he was now tall enough that he didn’t have to tilt his head too far back to meet his professor’s furious eyes. Black eyes, filled with hatred and violence… Those eyes were more threatening than anything else about the man. “Need I detail for you, _Mr. Potter_ ,” he spat, “just what I am capable of doing to your miserable existence if you persist in tormenting me with your presence?”

“No.” Harry’s ire was rising, and he clenched his teeth to stop himself from saying something that would put him in an early grave for sure. “I think I get the picture, sir.”

Snape’s eyes flashed fire. “Good. Get out.”

Harry braced himself for war, if it came to that. “This is my room. _You_ get out.”

“I am not laughing, Potter. And I am in no mood for whatever adolescent prank you’ve concocted. I will have you know I came here to save your miserable self—a fact which I already sorely regret. Now,” he grabbed Harry roughly by the arm, “Get out!”

But his last two words didn’t have exactly the intended effect, for as soon as Harry’s arm was jerked, he let out an involuntary howl of pain. He quickly, firmly, clamped a hand over his own mouth to keep himself from making more noise and forced himself to listen for the sound of footfalls in the house.

Harry hadn’t realized just how stiff yesterday’s sore shoulder had become after his night on the hard floor. Snape had jarred it earlier, but now… It hurt like hell, and Harry couldn’t think of anything save the excruciating jabs of pain running through his shoulder and down his arm. He slumped against the nearest wall, holding his arm tightly against his stomach. He willed himself not to cry. Not in front of Snape.

For a long moment, Harry tried to get his ragged breathing under control. His eyes were shut tight, even as the pain slightly subsided. Snape had stopped talking, and Harry wasn’t eager to see the man’s reaction to his display. No doubt he was deciding on the best comment to make at Harry’s expense. Something about _poor delicate Potter_ or his _propensity for attracting trouble_ , at the very least.

Harry finally regained his composure and stood, forcing his arm back to his side, though it still throbbed. His eyes searched for something to focus on other than Snape.

Trying to draw attention from what had just happened, Harry continued the conversation. “I’m not lying.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. “This is my room. Look, there’s Hedwig’s cage, see? And my school trunk. And here…” He shuffled over to the desk and used his good arm to pull a small book from the drawer. “Hermione gave me this. It has pictures in it of me and my friends.”

Snape didn’t respond, and Harry chanced a swift glance his way. The older man was watching Harry with narrowed eyes. Just watching him, nothing else. Or more like studying him, actually…like one might study an insect. Harry shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“So…uh, you see, I can’t leave—I don’t have another place to sleep. And I don’t have any other place where you’ll be hidden from my relatives. So…like it or not, we’re stuck sharing this room until Hedwig gets back.” He tried to sound forceful, and he cringed as his voice came out more pitiful than intended.

Snape finally spoke, but it wasn’t to acknowledge Harry’s short speech. “Your shoulder is injured,” he stated simply. His tone wasn’t harsh, but nor was it gentle. He was simply stating a fact.

Harry blinked. It wasn’t like Snape to point out the obvious.

“It’s fine,” Harry rasped out after a moment and ducked his head, his facing flushing again. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Snape’s biting tone was back, and he finally moved from his spot to step closer to Harry. “I couldn’t have the slightest concern for you or what caused this injury. My concern, such as it is, has to do with being berated by the Headmaster for harming his precious golden boy. It would not benefit me to have him reach the assumption that I either injured you or knew about it and did nothing.”

Harry stared back at him, embarrassment fading, before blurting out, “I find it really hard to believe that would keep you awake at night.”

Snape scowled. “I would rather not be kept awake all night by _your antics_ , Potter. Take off your shirt.”

“What?” Harry backed up, arms wrapped around his middle. “No! I don’t need your help, and I’m sure as hell not letting you prod and probe me!”

“Just do it, Potter! The sooner you comply, the sooner we both can get back to sleep.”

Snape made a move for him, which Harry managed to dodge, ducking to the opposite side of the room. Snape tried once more and caught Harry by the back of his shirt, attempting to force it from his back. Harry squirmed, trying to get away from his professor’s grasp, and kicked out his legs. One of them connected with something hard, and he heard Snape gasp before Harry was shoved to the floor without warning.

“You don’t want my help, so be it! It will be entirely my pleasure to see you suffer!” Snape stalked over to the bed and lay on his side with his back to Harry, snapping the sheet over his shoulder before lying still.

Harry rubbed his bum where he had clumsily landed. For someone who was supposedly concerned with seeing to his injury, he fumed, Snape certainly didn’t seem to mind causing another.

Seething and not about to turn his back to the man, Harry lay back down on his pile of shirts and glared at the professor’s back, imagining the use of every harmful and torturous curse about which he’d ever heard.

He hated Snape. That was the one thing in his life he knew with absolute certainty would never change.

Ever.


	4. The Art of Interrogation

Harry woke with a crick in his neck and, groaning, pulled his hand up to massage his sore muscles. He never thought he’d actually miss his hard, lumpy mattress, but it was a far sight better than the much harder floor.

The events of yesterday and the early morning had played over and over in his dreams, and he felt no better rested than he had several hours ago. A glance at the bed showed Snape still sleeping. _Glad one of us is able to have a decent night’s sleep_ , he thought bitterly.

The rising sun outside Harry’s window gave him cause to get a start on the day. It was a weekday, after all, and Aunt Petunia would expect his help with breakfast before Uncle Vernon left for work. Best not to give either of them an excuse to come looking for him in his room. That thought alone propelled him out of his makeshift bed and to the loo to get cleaned up.

Breakfast passed in a blur for Harry, distracted as he was by the night’s events. His hatred for his Potions professor had churned in his heart during the remainder of the night, and now his stomach felt like it was in knots, and there was an awful heaviness in his chest. It was a horrible feeling, one that Harry didn’t particularly like.

At some point during his and Petunia’s food preparation, Vernon and Dudley had entered the kitchen and were waiting to eat. Harry quickly put the rest of the food on the table and sat down in his usual place. They ignored him, of course, and Petunia was already going on about how proud she was of her “brave darling Dudders.” Harry had learned at the beginning of summer that because of his fluctuating size, Dudley’s school recommended that he be involved in more than one athletic program over the summer. Today that meant swimming in the morning and boxing in the afternoon. Harry found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Dudley actually did anything on those teams of his. He sure hadn’t slimmed down this summer.

The food didn’t hold any appeal for Harry just then, but he did manage to sneak his portions off his plate and into a plastic container he’d swiped from the kitchen drawer. Vernon and Petunia didn’t even notice, so focused were they on promising Dudley a new stereo system if he went to swim practice today, his least favorite activity. Harry held in a snicker at the image Dudley would make trying to stay afloat. He’d probably already scared some poor kid into thinking a real, live whale was roaming their swimming pool. That image alone lightened Harry’s mood considerably.

Finished and wanting to get a start on the after-meal cleaning, Harry moved to clear his dishes from the table. He was stopped by a hand on his wrist from the opposite side of the table, and an upward glance showed Vernon attached to that arm, a fierce gleam in his eyes.

“Not so fast, boy. We have a thing or two to discuss before I leave for work today.” Vernon’s voice was mostly calm, an unusual occurrence when talking to Harry. This might have worried Harry under normal circumstances, but today it only caused his already upset stomach to become slightly more unsettled.

Dudley left the table then to get his things for swim practice, and Petunia stood from her chair also, pausing only long enough to issue Vernon a brief warning glance before following her son from the kitchen.

Harry remained perfectly still. He didn’t know what to expect, and he sure wasn’t going to do anything that might provoke his uncle, especially if Petunia was about to leave them alone in the house together. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be grateful to his aunt for her recent role in keeping Vernon from dishing out his worst punishments…but he didn’t want her to stop, either.

“Now you listen here, boy,” Vernon started in what he probably considered his most intimidating voice. Harry couldn’t help but notice that compared to his early morning confrontation with Snape, a master in the art of fear and intimidation, Vernon came across sounding more like a sullen bully who hadn’t gotten his way. Not totally _un_ -intimidating, but still…there were ways to get around mere bullies. Harry should know. He’d grown up with Dudley and his gang.

Vernon continued his lecture to Harry, his voice rising. “I don’t care what you’ve fooled Petunia into believing, and I don’t for one minute buy your story about more freaks in the neighborhood. I see right through your attempts to avoid your chores, and it is going to stop right now, you hear?” Vernon had half risen out of his chair during his speech, leaning forward with both hands on the table.

Harry recognized right away it might be better for him if he could keep his uncle’s temper from rising further. There was more at stake here than a few lousy chores, after all. He felt a chill go up his back at the thought of being forced outside by his uncle, only to be captured and killed by Death Eaters.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he forced himself to speak respectfully. “I’m sorry for worrying Aunt Petunia. I’ll do my chores.” He took a deep breath. It was easier figuring out how to word things just right when talking to his aunt than it was with his uncle. “Only, I was telling Aunt Petunia the truth. Sir.” He tacked on that last bit, just in case it helped. “There are...people…out there watching for me. You don’t have to worry, they’re not after you or anything…” Hmm. That was a thought Harry hadn’t considered before. They wouldn’t hurt the Dursleys to get to Harry, would they? He pushed that aside for later consideration and rushed on so Vernon wouldn’t have time to consider those implications. “But if they see me, I’m pretty sure they’ll make a scene.” No point in mentioning they most definitely would kill him, too. That would probably make Vernon all the more eager to send him outside.

Vernon didn’t look placated. If anything, he looked more angry. “That’s enough lies! You listen, and you listen well. If I get home and find those weeds have not been pulled, you’ll find out just what ‘a scene’ looks like!” Standing by now, Vernon glared furiously at Harry, clenching and unclenching his fists, but all he did was take one last swig of juice and head for the door.

He turned back once more before heading completely out the door, and looking Harry straight in the eyes, he put his best intimidation voice back on, yelled, “OR ELSE,” and stormed away, feet pounding on his way out of the house.

Harry sighed. That was about the extent of what he could do right then, he was so tired. _Well_ , he dryly considered, _I may as well invite Voldemort for a cup of tea. Why leave him out? Everybody else who despises my existence is already here._ He dropped his head to the table and sat that way for several endless minutes while he considered his options.

He couldn’t go outside, that was for sure. He still didn’t know what Voldemort was planning, but he was certain from his vision and the crash that Snape was telling the truth.

Oh, yeah, the crash…

He hadn’t had a chance to think about the crash much, though he figured it was probably a setup to get him away from the house. But it puzzled Harry. Why go to all that trouble to stage an accident when Harry was already outside? And he’d been here all summer and they hadn’t tried to get to him yet. Why try now? Also, Harry thought with a shiver, how long had Voldemort known where he lived? It was no use convincing himself that he didn’t; it was obvious that he did. And if Snape knew that Voldemort knew, wouldn’t the Order? Where were they? Weren’t they guarding the house like they were last summer?

And what was _the plan_ that had Voldemort feeling so triumphant? Most important to Harry, how did it involve him?

Harry felt like his head would explode with questions if he didn’t get some answers, and soon. Unfortunately, he had only one source of information…and he wasn’t too eager to tap into that source.

Weighing his options, however, there really was little contest. He hated the idea of being in the dreadful man’s presence, but he hated being kept in the dark even more. And he hadn’t forgotten his first Occlumency lesson with Snape last year. There had never been any love lost between them, but he still remembered that Snape had been the one to finally give him some amount of information when no one else had.

Hoping that a food offering would help loosen Snape’s lips, he brought a glass of water and the container of food back to his room. Cleaning up could wait. His relatives had left him alone in the house again, and Petunia and Dudley wouldn’t be back from swim practice for a couple hours.

When he opened his door he stopped short at the sight of a very awake Snape thoroughly examining Harry’s room. The wardrobe was wide open, both desk drawers were ajar, and even the mattress on the bed had been turned upside down.

Upon noticing Harry’s entrance into the room, Snape ceased his inspection of the window and, crossing his arms, stood up straight with a look of determination upon his face. Harry didn’t even have a chance to ask what was going on before Snape sharply demanded, “What is this, Potter? What are you trying to prove?”

Harry stood in the doorway, still holding the food and water, but now thoroughly puzzled. “Sir? I don’t understand—”

“This, Potter!” Snape gestured all around them. “The room, the bars on the window. The locks! There is an entire line of locks on the door of this room, all latching from the outside, and a smaller door within the door, the purpose of which I can only deduce is for the passage of food!” Snape paced the floor, not looking at Harry any longer, eyes roaming over the entire contents of the room. “There is no need to explain the padlocked trunk. You never do your summer homework up to par, so it really is no surprise that you would lock your books away from sight while you idle away your summer. Or is there something other than books in that trunk?” He stopped his pacing to give Harry a piercing stare. “What are you trying to hide, Potter?”

“N—nothing!” Harry was taken aback. He’d been so focused on getting back to his room to question Snape that he hadn’t expected an interrogation going the other way. With everything else on his mind, he’d almost forgotten his worry over the man’s perception of the bare room.

Finding no more response forthcoming from a speechless Harry, Snape continued his tirade. “And the wardrobe!” He reached in, grabbing a handful of clothes and throwing them at Harry’s feet. “Not a decent pair of clothing amongst these rags, if that is even a proper description for these…things.” Snape’s face had twisted into a disgusted grimace, as he held one of Dudley’s old trousers far away from him before throwing it atop the pile of clothes on the floor.

He stalked over to Harry then and towered over him just as he had the night before. “Out with it, Potter! NOW! What do you hope to gain by passing this prison cell off as your bedroom?”

“I…” Harry didn’t know what to say, so he stuck with the truth. “This is my bedroom. I’m not making anything up, I swear.”

“And while we’re at it, might I remind you that, summer or no, I am still your professor. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘professor’ at all times. Is that understood?”

“Yes…sir.” Harry set his lips in a thin line.

“Good.” Snape’s eyes said he felt anything but truly satisfied. “Now tell me the truth, Potter!”

“I _am_ telling you the truth. _Sir_.” Harry exploded, “I live here. This is my room. _My_ room! It’s not much, but it’s mine, and thanks a whole heaping lot for messing it all up! It’s really—”

“Respect, Potter!” Snape interrupted, infuriated. “I expect for you to speak to me with respect, even when lying through your teeth!”

“Sorry. Thanks a whole heaping lot for messing up my room, _sir_.”

The two glared at each other across the small space. Harry knew Snape wasn’t going to back down, but he wasn’t about to let the greasy git win, either. The battle of wills turned into a battle of glares, and Harry gained a new appreciation for the old Muggle saying, ‘if looks could kill…’ He’d bet anything Snape’s glare had killed someone during his lifetime—probably some poor Hufflepuff first year.

Snape finally broke the charged silence with a low, angry hiss. “I do not appreciate being lied to, Potter. You will tell me the truth…now.” His quiet, menacing words were more frightening than any yell would have been.

Harry disliked a great many things, but being called a liar when he was telling the truth was one of the worst. He matched Snape’s quiet tone, though his lack of practice didn’t render him quite as intimidating. “I’ve already told you the truth, professor. My aunt and uncle put me in this room because they hate my guts, just like you do. _They_ put the bars on the window. _They_ put the locks on the door. And _they_ padlocked my trunk so I wouldn’t be able to touch any of my magical things while under their roof! Those are my clothes, too—my cousin’s castoffs because I’m not important enough to them to buy new clothes for! Don’t you get it!? I’m not the spoiled, pampered prince you think I am! I’m just Harry, the burden my relatives never wanted!” He ended his tirade yelling at his professor.

Snape threw up his hands. “You’re delirious, Potter. I have no patience for these games or your pathetic teenage angst. If you insist on living like a pauper in your own self-pitying make-believe world, by all means, continue. You’ll get no sympathy from me.”

He noticed the food and water Harry still held. “I presume these are my rations?” Snape snatched both from a still-fuming Harry, sloshing water out of the glass in the process. “My sincerest gratitude,” he sneered insincerely and sat down at the desk to eat, his rigid back to Harry.

Well, it was just fine with Harry if Snape was done talking. Harry had had quite enough, thank you very much. His quest for answers forgotten, he left the room with the intent of getting as far away from Snape as possible. Again.

* * *

It was amazing, Harry reflected several hours later, how something as mundane as cleaning could calm one’s nerves. He’d been on edge for so long that it was kind of nice to pour his nervous energy into washing, dusting, and polishing. Upon discovering that it actually made him feel better for once, he had attacked his chores with vigor, and already those that didn’t require him to step foot outside were just about done.

He took a break to peer out the window for any suspicious activity. He hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary on the other half dozen occasions he’d looked, but that didn’t stop him from looking again.

The scene outside the window was so incredibly…ordinary. The sun was bright in the sky, and a light breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees, making it the perfect day for several of the neighbor children to play in their yards. Harry could see nothing menacing about the calm, happy scene. No Death Eaters lurking in the shadows, no enemies ready to pounce.

He had returned to cleaning by the time he heard the sound of Aunt Petunia’s car pulling up to the house, followed soon after by the bang of the opened front door. Glancing up, he saw Dudley pound up the stairs with a large package in his arms.

Harry continued working, knowing that his aunt liked him better when she could see him accomplishing something. Well, she didn’t like him better, really. If anything, it was maybe that she disliked him a little bit less.

By the time Petunia made it through the door with a bag of groceries in hand, Harry had finished the living room. She stood for a moment, looking at him, before moving toward the kitchen. “Come. Help me put the groceries away.”

Aunt Petunia wasn’t talkative, but she kept sneaking glances at Harry as they worked in the kitchen. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she still worried about there being wizards in the neighborhood? Or—Harry felt mounting dread—did she know something about Snape being here? Maybe she heard them last night. He guessed the only reason the Dursleys either hadn’t heard them in the night or hadn’t bothered to check on him was because they were used to his occasional nightmare. Vernon used to bang on his door every night he made a peep, but Harry supposed that once it started happening more and more often, the Dursleys learned to tune it out. That, or maybe Vernon finally realized that threatening Harry wasn’t doing any good.

Now he was worried. What if Petunia, the slightly less confrontational of the two, had heard them? She was also more observant than her husband—which admittedly wasn’t saying much—so if she heard, might she have realized there were two voices? Well, he sure couldn’t ask her. Whether she had or hadn’t heard, she obviously hadn’t said anything to Vernon. He’d have stormed right in there and demanded Snape out of his house. Harry wasn’t sure if the picture of Uncle Vernon trying to intimidate Snape with his “or else” bit was funny or frightening.

“You’re done here, boy.” Petunia’s neutral voice cut into his thoughts, startling him. “Go on to your room until dinner. I don’t need you underfoot all afternoon.” That said, she turned back to the pan she had taken out and began cutting ingredients for what looked to be the beginnings of a stew.

Harry’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and the smell of food made him realize just how much of an appetite he had worked up from cleaning all morning long.

“Er…Aunt Petunia?” He chanced cautiously.

She turned her head, eyes just the slightest bit narrowed.

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s almost noon. I was wondering if I might have a bit to eat.”

She only paused a moment before removing a jar from the pantry door. “Here. Now go.”

Harry examined his prize on his way up the stairs. It was a small jar of canned peaches. Not bad, but he doubted it would satisfy his hunger for long, either. He hoped Snape had enough in his stomach to last until after dinner, because he really, really didn’t want to have to share.

Snape was sitting up on the bed, seemingly deep in thought, when Harry reentered his bedroom. The man didn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge him, which was just fine with Harry.

The room was still in disarray. Snape hadn’t made a move to clean up any of the mess he had made earlier, and Harry figured that based on what he knew about the rigidly organized and structured Potions master, he’d probably left it that way just to spite Harry.

Settling down on the pile of shirts that had been his bed the night before, Harry got to work opening the jar. It took some doing, as it was sealed tight, but he finally unscrewed the lid and deeply breathed in the scent of peaches. He grinned in anticipation. Lacking any utensils, he picked out one slippery wedge with his fingers and popped it into his mouth, savoring every bite.

He continued this way for several minutes before he noticed Snape watching him with what could only be described as disgust. Harry looked down at himself. He hadn’t spilled anything. What was Snape’s problem? He wiped his sticky hand on a shirt nearby, and Snape grimaced.

So that was it. The devil inside Harry grinned. He stuck his fingers back in the jar, careful to get as much of the peach juice on his hand as possible, and slurped a wedge into his mouth. Making sure to slop it around a bit and open his mouth wide a few times between chews, he wiped his hand back on the shirt, then on his own for good measure.

Snape’s disgusted features had morphed into something akin to nausea.

Harry was fully enjoying himself by the time he finished his last bite and slurp, though Snape had looked away by then. No matter. He knew Snape could still hear him. Harry smacked his lips, loudly, one last time before setting aside the empty jar and settling in for what was sure to be one long afternoon.


	5. The Walls Have Ears

Harry was bored. He was totally, utterly, completely bored. Altogether, entirely, perfectly, thoroughly bored. Fully, wholly, exhaustively… He was running out of words to describe how bored he was, but at least the thinking of those words had taken a few more minutes out of his boring afternoon.

Sighing, he turned over onto his stomach and watched the only moving thing in the room: Snape. The man was sitting on Harry’s bed, where he had been during most of the afternoon, not once saying a single word to Harry. Snape had only moved once, and that had been to grab Harry’s one Muggle pen from his desk and some parchment from a small stack Harry kept in the back of one of the desk drawers. He was now scribbling something on one of the parchments, several full sheets stacked face down on the bed beside him. Every now and then he would stop, concentration etched into his face, before starting up again with furious scribbles.

Through his boredom, Harry noted that the sound of Snape’s scribbles clashed with the beat of music coming through the walls from Dudley’s room.

Sighing again, he turned back over to study the ceiling. Usually when he was stuck in his room for hours, he would occupy himself with writing letters to his friends or practicing his spells—without a wand, of course—or looking through his parents’ album or reading his book about Quidditch teams throughout history. But Snape was already using the pen and parchment, which ruled out letters. There was no way he was going to get up and prance around practicing spells like an idiot with Snape watching him. And maybe it wouldn’t matter since the professor should be gone tomorrow, but he didn’t want Snape to know about his hiding place under the floorboards. It was his own secret place. Some of the things he kept in that hiding place were simply too personal to take out with his most hated professor there.

Sighing once more, Harry turned back over onto his stomach. And sighed again.

Letting out his own sigh of pure exasperation, Snape broke the silence. “If you’re so bored, you could try to come up with something productive to do. Homework, perhaps?” He shot a pointed look at Harry. “If your summer months are always this…entertaining, I wonder that your homework never shows more than ten minutes of actual attention.”

Ignoring the barb, Harry turned over onto his back and sighed again. After a moment, he heard Snape’s scribbling resume.

He had actually reached the point of boredom about an hour ago, after he’d finally given in to the only thing around to keep him occupied: tidying the room. He had righted the few items on and in his desk, even straightening his chair and Hedwig’s cage, and thrown the clothes he wasn’t using as a makeshift bed back into the wardrobe. He didn’t bother folding them neatly, other than a few items Ron had passed on to him.

But he had finished the task of straightening his room, and even trying to come up with ways to irritate Snape without outright getting himself killed had grown old.

If only he could go outside. There was a park nearby, and he really, really wanted to sit on the grass with the sunshine on his face. But no, Voldemort had to take away the freedom of the outside world, the Dursleys had to make the house uninviting, and Snape had to fill his bedroom with his dark presence.

Wasn’t life just grand.

His thoughts turned back to the reason he wasn’t allowed outside. Voldemort’s plan. Rolling yet again over to his stomach, Harry set his eyes on Snape. The information he wanted to know lay inside that dark, greasy head. But how to extract it? Maybe if he were a Legilimens, he wouldn’t have to ever talk to the git again. Well…but Snape was also an expert Occlumens, so never mind about that fantasy.

Best stick with the direct approach, then.

“Professor?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to speak with respect, but he thought he’d done a fairly decent job of at least keeping his voice even. Snape paused in his writing, but he immediately continued with no other acknowledgment that he had heard Harry speak.

“Professor?” Harry tried again, finding it slightly harder this time to maintain an even tone. “Prof—”

“I heard you, Potter! Or have you not noticed that we are the only two people in the vicinity?”

Harry managed to hold back a glare. Getting his questions answered depended entirely on Snape’s willingness to answer them. “You warned me yesterday to stay inside, sir. That the house was being watched…” Harry looked at Snape, expectant for more information.

After a moment, the professor spoke. “That is correct, Potter. I am thrilled to know that you do occasionally listen to the spoken word.” He poised his pen to continue to write.

Not about to be deterred, and determined not to get his hackles up, Harry persisted. “What does that mean, sir? Who is watching the house? Death Eaters? What do they want with me this time? Why now? And—”

“Potter!” Snape tossed his parchment to the side, and Harry halted his tirade of questions. Snape didn’t bother to stop a glare of his own, but at least now he acknowledged Harry’s purpose. “We are at war. Yes, Death Eaters are watching the house. They want what they have always wanted. To eliminate any threat you represent and thus come that much closer to winning the war. Why now? Now is as good a time as any, I’d say. There. Go back to...doing something other than interrogating me!”

No way was Harry about to be put off after getting his attention so far. “They want to capture me or kill me? Capture me, then kill me later? Just because I’m me? Or does Vold—” Harry switched his verbiage upon Snape’s murderous look, “Does _he_ want something else with me? Does he have some kind of…er…plan?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed so that Harry could barely tell they were still open and leaned forward, thunder in his quiet voice. “What do you know about any ‘plan,’ Potter?”

“Er, nothing. Sir.” Something stopped Harry from telling Snape about his vision, though he wasn’t sure why it would really matter. Snape already knew everything Harry had seen, after all, right? Just the same, he averted his eyes in case Snape tried to legilimize him. “It’s just that…every other time he’s been after me, it was because of some plan. First year, he wanted the stone, second year it was the whole thing with the diary, fourth year he was after my blood, and fifth year so I’d find the—” Harry left off here, not sure how much Snape actually knew about the prophecy. He wasn’t going to be the one to fill him in if he didn’t already know.

“Well,” Harry continued, his eyes still averted, “You know—he’s always got some plan. I guess I’d just like to know if he’s finally decided to kill me straight off, or if there’s some other reason he’s after me this time.” He chanced a look up, still careful to keep his voice even. “Do you know? Sir?”

Surprisingly, Snape didn’t appear to be angry. He had a calculating look on his face, as if he was sizing Harry up for…well, Harry wasn’t sure what for.

He waited a few long moments for Snape to say something. He didn’t dare breathe too loudly, for fear the older wizard would decide not to answer his questions. Snape finally began to speak, almost as if he were teaching a lecture in Potions class.

“The Dark Lord has returned to power, Potter; he has regained his strength, and then some. He is no fool. He recognizes that if he is going to best you, he will have the most likelihood of succeeding while he is at full power and you are still, for all intents and purposes, a child.”

Harry frowned in indignation at that term—he was one day shy of sixteen, after all—but he quickly schooled his features, willing Snape to continue. He was glued to his professor’s words, eager to learn as much as possible about anything having to do with Voldemort and the war.

“As to your question regarding…plans…” Snape paused before continuing, now in full professor mode. “The Dark Lord is a master of plots and plans, Potter. He may be fully focused on his end goals of blood purity and personal power, but never fool yourself into thinking that he intends to reach those goals in a single giant step. Everything he does is in some way a preparation for reaching his ultimate goal of dominance and could have long term ramifications for the methods with which we choose to fight him.” He looked back at an eagerly listening Harry and frowned, as if remembering who he was speaking with. “Hence, when you ask what plan is involved in his renewed efforts to capture you, even a brain as minuscule as yours must have a measure of understanding that the answer is quite simply _not_ that simple.”

“Okay, alright, I get that. Sir.” Harry was eager for more. “But how about his immediate plan? Say he captures me, what then? Does he just want to kill me right away to get me out of the way? Sir?”

But the informative Snape of a few moments ago had gone, leaving behind the increasingly irritating man Harry was used to dealing with. “Enough, Potter. If you want to question someone, question the headmaster. I have already told you what you need to know: don’t get captured by the Dark Lord!”

“But—”

“No!” Snape exploded, eager to get rid of Harry’s questions once and for all. “No, of course he does not want to simply kill you! Why should he, when he has found a much greater use for you alive? If you allow yourself to be captured this time, it could very well mean the end of any possible recourse against him. And before you ask me why, allow me to tell you that I _will not_ tell you! Bother someone else with your inane questions and juvenile concerns. No more, Potter!”

“But—”

Snape was upon him before Harry could process that he had moved. The professor had him by the collar of his shirt, and their faces were now inches apart. He felt Snape’s breath on his face, as he whispered in a dangerous tone, “No. More.”

Snape released him, and Harry righted himself before he lost his balance. Snape re-situated himself on the bed, his black curtain of hair hiding his face from Harry’s view.

Harry lay back down to consider what he had learned. Boredom not an issue now that he had Snape’s words to consider, he lost himself in his thoughts. The silence of the room was broken only by Snape’s furious scratching of pen to parchment and the sound of music still drifting through the walls from Dudley’s stereo.

* * *

The last hours of the afternoon passed much as the first few had, except that Snape had by then filled every piece of parchment he could find in the room and looked as completely bored as Harry had felt earlier. The usually active man had paced the room for a while before sitting on the bed, only to get immediately back up to stand near the window. Whatever he found to amuse himself outside didn’t appease him for long, for he soon returned to sit on the bed. Finally he lay down, presumably to try to sleep.

Harry liked it better when Snape was staying in one place. This constant motion back and forth around the room was making him jumpy.

He supposed he could go downstairs for a while. He had already heard Aunt Petunia leaving with Dudley for his afternoon boxing practice. Vernon could be home at any time, though, and with how upset he had been already before leaving for work, and the fact that Harry hadn’t minded him about the weeds, he didn’t think he should upset him any further by being caught roaming around the house in their absence.

Just then, as though his thoughts had made it reality, he heard the sound of a car pulling up, followed by a car door opening and slamming closed. Uncle Vernon. Had to be. Petunia and Dudley wouldn’t be home for another hour, at least.

Harry nervously listened to the sounds his uncle’s footsteps made on the walkway in front of the house, then the sound of the door opening and closing. Vernon’s heavy steps faded somewhat: they had gone in the direction of the kitchen. Another minute passed before Harry heard footfalls on the stairs. He tensed as they came closer to the second floor and his own room. His every sense was attuned to Uncle Vernon’s movements. He hadn’t called for him; that must be a good sign. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that Harry hadn’t followed his orders from the morning? Maybe he would keep on walking…

“BOY!” Two hard raps on the door startled Harry into a sitting position, and with a glance at his bed, he saw that Snape was likewise sitting up in bed, having been jolted by the unexpected interruption to his too-brief nap. His eyes were trained on the door in annoyance.

Harry scrambled up and over to the door, motioning for Snape to stay hidden. Snape, despite his visible annoyance, lay down on the bed, arranging the sheet around himself and his clothing in such a way that to a casual observer, it might just look incredibly messy. Harry was grateful that he hadn’t had to explain himself to get Snape to cooperate; the professor probably just didn’t want to have to deal with Muggles while he was stuck here. Especially Muggles related to Harry Potter. Whatever the reason, he had complied, and that’s all that mattered.

Harry sucked in a breath and pulled open the door with the intent of getting out into the hallway before Uncle Vernon had a chance to come in. Before he could get so far as to inch out, he was yanked by the arm—thankfully, by his good arm, so he only let out a startled gasp—and pulled out into the hall to face a very red-faced Uncle Vernon. Despite his surprise, Harry tried to close his bedroom door completely behind him where it stood ajar, but Vernon yanked him back to face him with even more force.

Ooh, Vernon was angry. So angry, in fact, that he didn’t seem able to form words. His face was already purple, and Harry didn’t see how it could get any more so. And yet it was growing more alarmingly purple by the second.

Harry figured he’d better say something, fast, before his uncle literally exploded and he got blamed for it. “Um, Uncle Vernon, about the weeds. I—”

The sound of Harry’s voice apparently helped Vernon regain his steam, for he interrupted right away. “You ungrateful…” Vernon took a deep breath and then roared into Harry’s face, “FREAK!”

He released Harry and shoved him away, but his bulk still blocked the stairs. “I warned you, boy, didn’t I? Didn’t I warn you? I said ‘pick those weeds,’ plain as day, and I even gave you a second chance for Petunia’s sake! ‘Don’t hurt the boy,’ she says, like those freaks you associate with might find out. Well, I know what’s what, boy. I know what you’re doing. Putting off chores, you are, plain and simple!”

Harry listened to Vernon’s tirade, trying unsuccessfully several times to cut him off. As much as he didn’t want to be punished with more chores or no food, his every thought was focused on the knowledge that they were still next to Harry’s open door and there was no way that Snape couldn’t hear everything that transpired. Vernon hadn’t said anything near as awful as he could so far, and Harry preferred to keep it that way, no matter what dignity he may lose with his uncle.

He tried again as soon as he saw his uncle pause to draw a long breath. “Uncle Vernon, I know I didn’t do the weeds, and I’m really sorry. Really, I am. I’ll make it up by doing anything else in the house you want. I could help Aunt Petunia with dinner again tonight,” he offered hopefully.

“Oh, no you don’t, boy. You’re not getting out of it that easy,” Vernon growled, a big heavy growl like a bear before mealtime, “You’re going right back down there to finish the weeding, and when you’re done with that, you can cut the grass! And when you’re finished with that, you can trim the hedges and water the plants! I don’t care if it takes you until tomorrow morning, you’ll do it!” With that, Uncle Vernon grabbed him again, this time by his sore arm, and Harry couldn’t help letting out a yelp as Uncle Vernon dragged him toward the stairs. He struggled despite the pain, needing to be let go. He escaped his uncle’s grasp and stumbled to the floor.

He jumped to his feet right away, inching back from his uncle’s threatening stance. “I swear I wasn’t making up why I can’t, Uncle Vernon! I seriously can’t go outside. It’s too dangerous!”

“Dangerous! _Dangerous!_ ” Uncle Vernon was shouting now. “You useless boy. Just like your useless father, you are! Never did anything worth anything his whole life, and then up and got himself killed. Probably did it just to get away from you, too, so we’d get stuck with the likes of you! I can’t count how many times I should have up and tossed you out on the streets, but Petunia would have none of it. Well, she’s not here now, boy. She’s not here to make sure I don’t do something your kind wouldn’t approve of. Well, I’m not scared of you or your stick waving or your freaky eyed friend! Right now it’s you and me. And you’re going outside right now!”

“Uncle Vernon, please…” Harry hated that it came out sounding like he was begging, but he’d already found out arguing wouldn’t work. He just needed to get his uncle to stop his ranting and let him be. He was starting to feel sick to his stomach, not knowing what else might come tumbling out of Vernon’s mouth.

“Look, I can owl my headmaster. He’ll explain things to you. He’ll tell you all about the dark wizards and how I—”

He didn’t bother finishing his sentence, for with one look at Uncle Vernon’s face, he knew he’d crossed the line with mentioning anything having to do with the wizarding world. Vernon’s face was that horrible purple color again, and all he could vocalize were a few sputtered words. “Why you…how dare…in my house!”

Harry barely had time to process Uncle Vernon’s raised hand before his head was thrown back by a sudden, hard slap. The force of the surprise blow knocked him off balance, and he stumbled onto the floor, where he sat, sprawled out, completely dazed. He didn’t even register the pain, so shocked was he at being hit. Uncle Vernon hated him, sure, but he didn’t usually hit him. Well, not like _that_ , anyway, he thought, recollecting the occasional slaps Vernon had dished out before Harry had started at Hogwarts.

A glance up showed Vernon looking wildly around, as if afraid that wizards would suddenly come out of the woodwork. He actually looked a little scared. When nothing happened, he grabbed for Harry, who was too shocked to fight, and dragged him to his feet and toward his bedroom door.

“You don’t want to do your chores, fine! Seeing how you’re not good for anything else, you can just sit up here and rot for all I care! And you can do without food, too, until you come to your senses. Maybe…” Vernon hissed at Harry, pulling him back around so that they were nose to nose, “Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll starve to death!”

Vernon shoved him back into his room, slamming the door immediately behind him. Harry stumbled on his feet and dumbly watched the door as the sound of lock after lock reached his ears. Vernon, having turned the last lock, stomped his way to his own bedroom and slammed the door. Harry involuntarily jumped.

His face was stinging now. Touching his fingers to his lips, he winced, and a glance at his hand confirmed that the coppery taste inside his mouth was blood. There wasn’t very much, really, but the cut on the inside of his lip still hurt something awful. He ran his tongue over his lips and moved his jaw around a bit, concluding that nothing else seemed hurt. He turned back to his bed.

And came face to face with Snape.

 _Oh, Merlin._ He’d been so shocked by Uncle Vernon’s fit of rage, he’d forgotten all about the man who had been the forefront in his mind only moments ago. His stomach dropped, and he could feel his face growing hot with humiliation.

He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just stared.

Snape stared right back, his features controlled and unreadable, before jumping suddenly to his feet, which startled Harry into stepping back into the wall. But Snape simply walked to the window, and when he got there, he turned around and walked back. He looked at Harry, at his cheek, and repeated his pacing.

Harry wished he could sink through the floor. Or, if that wasn’t an option, he at least wanted to go to sleep and wake up to find out this was all a dream, that Professor Snape had not just heard what Harry knew he’d just heard…

Snape stopped his pacing then, right in front of Harry. “You weren’t lying,” he finally stated, his eyes calculating despite being tinged with something else…realization? Or was it surprise? “About any of it. Were you, Potter?” Those eyes trained on Harry, waiting for a response.

Harry hadn’t come any closer to being able to form words. He really didn’t want to be here. He wanted to get away. Away from the Dursleys, away from Snape and his questions. He couldn’t take it, he had to get away.

But he was locked in. Lock in with Snape, of all people. There was nowhere to run.

He forced himself to breathe. Snape, of all people, had to witness the humiliation he suffered daily from his relatives, and it had to be the time Vernon decided to be especially nasty. If he knew Snape, it would be all over Slytherin by the first day of classes and all over the entire school by the second. The damage was already done, and nothing Harry could say would change that.

Harry shoved at his professor in his rush to get out from under his assessing gaze. If he could only get away from Snape, he could sit on his pile of shirts and wait for Hedwig to arrive so he could get Snape the hell out of here. But the larger man wouldn’t budge. He blocked Harry, maneuvering so that the frazzled teen was trapped into the corner near his door. Harry swallowed against a feeling of rising panic. He’d faced Voldemort, he reminded himself. He could face inquiry by his own professor. Somehow, that didn’t help very much, he thought as he looked back up into Snape’s determined eyes.

“Answer me, Potter,” Snape demanded. “What is going on here? Is this normal treatment by your uncle? Does Dumbledore know about this?”

Despite Snape’s rapid-fire questions, Harry couldn’t tell what was behind them. Surely Snape wasn’t concerned about Harry; he couldn’t detect anything that seemed like concern in the man’s expression. It seemed more to Harry like he was about to figure out a puzzle…or that he’d come across a new puzzle that needed to be solved. Well, Harry hardly wanted to become Severus Snape’s new ‘puzzle’ to solve.

That sudden rise of indignation helped him to find his voice. “Thank you for your concern, professor,” he grated out. “But seeing as how you’re not my head of house or school or anything, I think I’ll pour my heart out to somebody else.” It actually came out a little harsher than he’d planned, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He was feeling a desperate need to get out of that corner.

To Snape’s credit, he didn’t raise his voice. Nor did he insert any venom into his steady speech. “I am your professor, Potter. Head of house or no, what is going on in my student’s home _is_ of my _concern_.”

Harry gaped before he felt a twinge of pain in his lip and promptly closed his mouth. Since when would Snape be concerned about his home life? It was laughable, only Harry didn’t feel like laughing. He knew Snape didn’t actually care, of course, and he wasn’t about to give up any more information for the whole Slytherin house to gossip about.

“Thank you, sir, for your little display. I’ll make sure to mention it to the headmaster so he can be properly grateful. But like I said, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather bother someone else with my _juvenile concerns_.” He threw Snape’s words of the earlier afternoon back in his face and shut his mouth in a firm line.

Snape’s face remained unreadable, though he nearly imperceptibly narrowed his eyes. Then, surprisingly, he stepped back, allowing Harry freedom from his corner, and sat on the edge of the bed.

He sat there only a moment before switching topics so suddenly that Harry felt slightly disoriented. “You want to know about the Dark Lord’s plan concerning you,” he stated, in a rhetorical question sort of way, though he waited for a response.

He looked at Snape suspiciously, answering with a hesitant, “Yes…”

The Potions master sat on the bed calmly, as if they were discussing nothing more serious than the weather. “Might I suggest an exchange of information? I will tell you what you desire to know, and in exchange you will answer my questions. A question of yours for a question of mine, let’s say.”

Harry considered, taken aback. He wanted to know what Voldemort was up to. Badly. But Snape was the last person on earth he wanted to tell his secrets to.

On the other hand, between the room, Harry’s earlier outburst, and what Snape had just overheard, he didn’t have much more to hide, did he?

“Alright,” he accepted hastily, despite his increasing trepidation. His curiosity was too great to let him pass up this opportunity to acquire the information he craved. “It’s a deal.”

Harry couldn’t read the gleam in Snape’s eyes and hoped to Merlin he hadn’t just made a horrible, awful mistake.


	6. Voldemort's Plan

Snape crossed his legs and motioned for Harry to sit. The hospitable gesture struck Harry as way too odd, considering this was Harry’s own room.

Nevertheless, he sat, though not in the desk chair Snape had indicated. He’d rather sit on his semi-comfortable pile of shirts on the floor. Maybe it would feel less like a formal interrogation if he wasn’t directly across from Snape in an actual chair.

His fingers found a loose thread from a shirt in the pile as he leaned up against the wall, and he gratefully fiddled with it while he waited for Snape to begin. He wasn’t exactly sure how this was supposed to work. Had he made a mistake agreeing to this? Now that he had committed himself, would Snape let him not answer a question if he didn’t want to? The man couldn’t know all the right questions to ask anyway, right? _Harry_ didn’t even know what would be the “right” questions for Snape to ask.

Snape looked cool, calm, and collected, the direct opposite of what Harry felt like at that moment. Even so, Harry didn’t have the slightest guess what the man was thinking. He looked as if he had slipped into spy mode or something…like he was carefully controlling what he allowed others—Harry, in this case—to see.

Clearing his throat, Snape explained the rules of the game. “I will ask you a question, Potter. You will answer it thoroughly and to my complete satisfaction. Then you may do the asking. If I am not convinced that you have answered my question truthfully or completely, I will in no way answer yours. Are we clear?”

Harry didn’t speak, just nodded. He twisted the thread around the tip of his finger.

Snape leaned back a bit, settling in. “First question, Potter. Where is your wand?”

Harry had braced himself for the inevitable questions about Uncle Vernon, and at this unexpected first question, he drew his brows together in confusion. His wand? Snape had passed up on the obvious to ask about Harry’s wand?

Alright then, Harry could do with an easy question to start. “It’s in my trunk.” He gestured toward the padlocked item and sat up straight to ask his own question.

“Not so fast, Potter,” Snape held up his hand. “I said a complete answer, did I not? Explain what your wand is doing locked in your trunk.”

Harry felt a wave of…well, Slytherin…roll over him. “That wasn’t part of your question, sir. I thought it was one question each,” he dodged.

He felt certain Snape was going to fight him on that, but for some reason, the man conceded. “Very well. Continue,” he invited, waving his hand in a falsely gracious motion.

Harry felt smug. He had just out-Slytherined the Slytherin! Maybe he would enjoy this a bit after all. Not about to let Snape get to steaming or something that might end their arrangement, he rushed on to ask the question he had been dying to know since he’d begun thinking about his vision yesterday. “What is Voldemort’s plan?” He leaned forward, eager for Snape’s response.

“The _Dark Lord_ , Potter!” Snape hissed. “Ask it again, correctly, this time.”

Sheesh. “What is You-Know-Who’s plan?” he asked again. Fine, he would play this game as long as it gave him answers. But he wouldn’t give Voldemort the courtesy of calling him what his followers called him.

“World dominance. Explain what your wand is doing locked in your trunk.”

“Wait! You didn’t answer my question!” Harry was indignant.

Snape simply shrugged. “The Dark Lord’s plan is to ultimately achieve world dominance, Potter. If you wanted a different answer, I suggest you ask a more specific question next time. Now. Explain.”

Harry was even more incensed now. “You haven’t asked a _question_ yet, _sir_.”

Snape’s exasperation was starting to show. He brought his fingers up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Potter!” he snapped and then, with a deep breath, started again, more calmly than he obviously felt. “I can see my previous explanation of this process was not adequate. Allow me to begin again.” He lowered his hand. “I will ask you a question. It may come in the form of a question or in the form of a statement. I trust you will be able to tell when a response is expected.” Harry had the feeling that if Snape were inclined to eye rolling, he would have right then. As it was, he merely continued, his words slightly more enunciated than normal. “I will ask a question and demand explanation until I am satisfied that my _topic_ has been reasonably covered. Allow me that courtesy, and you may do the same. However, do the simple service to both of us of starting your questioning with an inquiry that does not require a full month to adequately answer!”

“Okay, alright,” Harry huffed. “Sounds fair,” he then conceded in a more civil tone.

“Good. Now. Why is your wand in your trunk?” Snape deliberately arranged his query in the form of a question, an edge of sarcasm to his tone.

“It—” Harry stopped suddenly at a faint thump down the hall and waved at Snape to keep quiet. He watched the door, listening intently for any sign that Uncle Vernon was on his way back. He heard another thump, followed by the slam of Vernon’s bedroom door and his heavy footfalls back down the stairs. At the sound of the car starting up, Harry jumped up and over to the window in time to see Vernon’s car leaving the driveway. He had no idea where he could be headed, but just knowing that he was gone for a little while longer gave Harry a feeling of relief.

He padded back over to his seat on the floor. What was the question? Oh yeah, the wand. He raised his head to answer the question, only Snape was just looking at him with another one of his inscrutable expressions. Harry decided to ignore it.

“Dudley and I aren’t exactly the best of friends,” he began. “Oh, Dudley’s my cousin,” he explained, not sure if Snape actually knew that. “Anyway, we were in the kitchen a couple days ago and he said something I didn’t like. So I…sort of pulled out my wand and threatened to turn his hair into feathers if he didn’t take it back.” He sneaked a glance at his professor. “I wouldn’t have done it though! I mean, I know about the underage restriction. I’m not stupid enough to chance getting expelled over something like _that_.”

Nothing in Snape’s face indicated that he was going to harp on it, so Harry continued. “So, um, Uncle Vernon sort of walked in and saw me with the wand, and he took it away and locked it in my trunk. I think he was afraid I might actually curse Dudley,” Harry explained, even while wondering why in the world he was defending Vernon to Snape.

He straightened. “Am I done?”

“Nearly,” was Snape’s response. “What did your cousin say to warrant a magical threat?”

Harry fixed his eyes on his thread, winding it around a different finger. “He was just ragging on me.”

Snape waited for more, to which Harry sighed. Snape had better be this forthcoming with his questions, Harry silently groused. “I talk in my sleep sometimes. Loudly. Dudley’s heard me before, other summers. This time was about Sirius.” he admitted.

“Very well, Potter. Your turn.”

Finally! Harry leaned forward. “What does Vol—I mean, You-Know-Who—want with me?”

Snape gave him an exasperated glare, to which Harry threw up his arms. “I don’t know enough to _get_ more specific than that! Just give me something to go on, okay?”

He watched as Snape considered how best to answer him. “He wants you for your blood,” he finally stated.

That was not what Harry had expected Snape to say. His blood? What did that even mean? “You mean…do you mean he wants to kill me?”

“No. It is to his greatest benefit to keep you alive…for the time being. I mean precisely what I said: he wants your blood.” Snape explained, “As I stated earlier this afternoon, the Dark Lord has been gaining strength steadily ever since his return to power little more than one year ago. I believe you remember the potion he used in that instance?”

Harry nodded.

“Then I need not remind you that your blood was a key component in that potion.”

Harry nodded again.

“Something happened as a result of that potion that even the Dark Lord did not expect. He surpassed his previous strength of abilities. He became capable of far more than he was even during the previous war, and he has determined that it was the use of your blood in the potion that allowed his power to grow. For a reason upon which one can only speculate, the connections between the two of you do not end in the mind. The interaction of your blood with his…I’ve never seen anything like it.” Snape paused, no doubt lost in scientific thought.

Harry couldn’t last more than a few seconds before clearing his throat in an impatient ploy to bring Snape back from whatever potions-centric world of his mind he’d drifted off to.

Fortunately, Snape continued. “The Dark Lord wants to capture you in order to acquire as much of your blood as possible…without yet killing you. He now believes it is the way by which he will rise to ultimate power. Indeed,” Snape contemplated seriously, “if he is correct, and if he succeeds, there may not be an army of wizards on earth that can stop him from reaching his ends.”

Snape allowed Harry to soak in that last thought before continuing with his own line of questioning. “The trunk. What else is in there?”

It was harder for Harry to shift gears than it had been for Snape, especially after what he had just learned. He couldn’t help a feeling of bewilderment. How could the man possibly expect him to abandon the important topic of himself and Voldemort to talk about his school trunk?

Well, he reminded himself, the sooner he played along, the sooner he could ask his next question. And considering how informative Snape was being, he was not about to give up now.

“The trunk. Right,” he thought aloud. “Well, my wand, obviously. My school robes and books. Pretty much all of my stuff that has to do with magic…which is most everything, actually,” he frowned to himself.

“The lock is your uncle’s doing?”

“Erm…yeah.”

“And how long have those items been locked from your sight? Other than the aforementioned wand.”

“Since I got back here for summer holiday,” Harry answered, eyes on his hands. He was back to twisting the string, which was just about to break into two pieces. “After Moody…” he stopped, realizing he’d just brought up one more thing he’d have to explain. “Er, Moody and some of the others kind of threatened Uncle Vernon at the train station at the beginning of summer to leave me alone. So when we got back to the house, Uncle Vernon said the only way he’d feel safe enough letting me roam about the house was if all my magical stuff was locked away. I managed to sneak out a few things, including my wand…for a while, anyway.”

“I take it your relatives…dislike…magic?” Snape questioned carefully.

Harry let out a short bitter laugh at that understatement. His thread finally broke apart, and he threw one half to the ground, still twisting the other. “They like things to be normal. Magic isn’t normal,” he explained simply. “To them, I mean,” he rushed to explain, not wanting his own views about magic to be misunderstood.

He cast questioning eyes on Snape, hopeful that he had said enough to be able to ask another question of his own.

At Snape’s slight nod, he dove right in. “This plan to get me and…my blood…” Harry shuddered. Saying that out loud was kind of creepy. “You said he wanted to keep me alive. I don’t get it. Why take the chance of me getting away? Why not just kill me and take it all?”

“For several reasons,” Snape began right away. Harry wondered if he, too, was eager to answer so he could get back to his own questions. “This is a new revelation to him. He does not yet know what other uses you may present to him. As for the blood…as long as you are alive, you will keep producing more of it. He does not know yet how much it will take to reach his maximum power. It would hardly benefit him to kill you only to learn that he needed more.”

“Right.” Harry racked his brain for something else to ask on topic so he could get more information before having to wait his next turn. “How does he plan on keeping me then—alive, I mean—without escaping? Does he have some magical dungeon somewhere? Some Frankenstein-type lab so he can strap me up to a table or something?”

Snape looked a little confused at that last bit, but he didn’t ask for clarification. “A potion, Potter,” he answered, entering professor mode. “A potion has been developed which will allow your body and magic to function regularly, while keeping a leash on your mind. Similar to a sleeping draught, only both far more potent and far less likely to lure your body into a vegetative state, as would most definitely be the case with the overdose of a sleeping draught.”

A potion...he felt chilled at a sneaking suspicion. “By ‘been developed.’ Um…you mean that _you_ developed it…don’t you? For me…”

Snape’s steady stare confirmed the answer to that question.

“Oh,” was all Harry could say. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t enraged at that. Of course, it didn’t really fall out of the scope of what things Harry had imagined Snape might do in Voldemort’s service. He felt another chill at the horror of being placed under the influence of a potion like that…to be living, but not _really_ living…

“Ahem.” This time it was Snape clearing his throat for Harry’s attention. “I do believe it is my turn.” Harry wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, or if Snape had looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. But whatever he’d seen in the man’s eyes was gone in an instant, so he really couldn’t be too sure.

“If your school books are locked in that trunk until September, how do you intend to do your summer homework?”

Harry dropped his thread altogether. “Wait a minute. I’m asking about the war and all you want to know is what’s in my school trunk and when I’m going to get my homework done? What is this, some kind of joke?”

Snape quirked a brow. “Joke? I would have thought you’d be thrilled, Potter. Or would you rather I find something else to ask? I am sure I can adequately satisfy your desire to be more invasively questioned…”

“I’ll cram the weekend before classes start,” Harry took the hint and answered the question. “Unless I get out of here before then. Last summer I got to stay at headquarters for the last few weeks, and a couple summers ago I got to go to the Weasleys. If the headmaster lets me go somewhere else again, then I could do it there. Of course,” he reflected, not sure why he was venturing to be quite so honest with his professor on this particular topic, “I guess in the past I’ve been a little…er, excited to be anywhere but here, so homework hasn’t really been the first thing on my mind…”

“Really. I’d have never guessed.” Snape’s dry comment lacked any vindictiveness, which Harry found really, really odd. He was, after all, discussing the lack of effort in Harry’s homework, something Snape historically liked nothing more than to point out with malice. “You are forbidden to do your schoolwork here, then?”

“Well…yeah,” Harry said honestly. “They haven’t always locked up my trunk though, so before I could sometimes get my stuff out and work on it in my room after they were all asleep.”

Snape fell silent then, as if Harry had given him something greater to ponder than the state of his summer homework. As if he’d discovered a piece of the Harry Potter puzzle.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He was starting to feel really weird talking with Snape like this. They hadn’t even argued for most of the time they’d been talking, and he resisted the urge to pick a fight just so they’d be on familiar territory.

Instead, he got up to stretch. He hadn’t been sitting for too long, but he felt like it had been for ages. His bad shoulder was starting to scream at him again, though at least the other one was only slightly sore. He paced a bit, letting his mind wander back to Snape’s revelations. He figured he should take advantage of Snape’s silence to think about his next line of questioning. He tried not to let himself over-think what he had just learned, which was already a great deal, but there were loads of questions still on his mind, and he needed to figure out the best way to get them out before he got too caught up in thinking it all through.

He wanted to know more about Voldemort’s plan. Now that he knew what it was regarding Harry, what was the whole story with them watching the house?

And he wanted to know about Dumbledore and the Order. What were their latest developments and what were they up to lately in response to Voldemort’s increasing threat? Or wait…that led to another question.

“Does Dumbledore know about this? And the Order? About him and…me. You know, the whole blood thing,” Harry blurted, suddenly needing to know.

Snape was looking up at him, but he must have been deep in thought, as it took him a moment to answer. “Yes. I have kept them apprised of the situation. What they do not know is that as of yesterday, the Dark Lord has resumed his attempts to capture you. He had been giving you a wide berth as of late, waiting until the optimal moment.”

“The…optimal moment…” Harry prodded.

“He needed to be certain that everything was in place prior to retrieving you.” Snape’s focus returned completely to the conversation. “This plan is too important to him to allow any room for error. As the most arduous item was the potion that I was creating for him, we had hoped to lead him to believe that the potion was not of a formulation that would allow quick preparation. That was easy to do. He would never suspect that the potion, which was difficult to develop, was actually quite simple to brew. It was to buy us several more weeks, by which time the headmaster would arrange for your secret early return to Hogwarts. You would have been guarded, of course. We had counted on the Dark Lord to plan his capture of you within that one week window.”

“So something went wrong, then.”

Snape sneered, his first since the conversation began. “Yes, something went wrong,” he bit out, his words laced with sarcasm, though Harry couldn’t tell if his biting tone was directed at Harry or at himself. “My allegiances were discovered. After the Dark Lord knew that I had betrayed him, it was only a matter of some effort to gather my findings and assign someone else to brew the potion. One hour! With the proper ingredients at their disposal, that is all the time even someone moderately skilled in the art of potion making would require to brew it to completion.”

Harry thought back to his vision, of Snape writhing in pain as Voldemort had cast the Cruciatus Curse, of Wormtail coming up to him. He wondered if those papers the rat had given Voldemort had anything to do with Snape’s potion. Maybe, if that was the only thing keeping him from going after Harry…

Taking Harry’s quiet reflection for the end of his questioning, Snape wasted no time starting in with his own. And, Harry realized, he had apparently exhausted his supply of “easy” questions.

“Is the scene I overheard indicative of the usual exchanges between you and your uncle?”

This was the type of question he’d been expecting in the very beginning of their conversation. He sourly wondered if maybe Snape hadn’t given him simpler questions at the very first on purpose. He was by now so caught up in hearing Snape’s informative answers that he didn’t want to stop them by not answering something himself.

It didn’t help that he felt off balance by the general lack of outright hatred Snape was letting show. Harry still didn’t believe for one second that it was gone or anything, just that Snape was playing a part to get what he wanted. Still, knowing that didn’t make the situation any less weird. Even though his opinion of the man was unchanged, it was harder to be cheeky when Snape was purposely not egging him on.

“Should I rephrase the question?”

Harry looked up, halfway hoping to see a familiar snide face to put normalcy back into their exchange, but Snape’s features were neutral, his expression saying he had meant the question exactly as stated.

Harry took a breath and let it out slowly. “He likes to yell a lot. That part’s spot on. The, um…other part…” Harry couldn’t quite vocalize what they both knew he was referring to. “Not really. I mean, he hasn’t…you know…for years.” He brought his hand to his cheek, holding in a wince. It still wasn’t all that bad, really. It wasn’t as if Vernon had punched him or anything. It was just a slap. Feeling how it was still sore, though, Harry figured he’d have a bit of a bruise for the next few days.

“He has hit you before, then?” Snape apparently had no qualms about saying it out loud.

Harry shrugged, studying the floor, hoping against hope that Snape wouldn’t press for an actual answer.

No such luck. Snape simply asked again, in a different way.

“You claim that he hasn’t hit you for years. Obviously, then, he _has_ in the past. Explain.”

He settled back into his seat. One of his hands was shaking a bit, and he willed it to stop. “I…I don’t…I mean, what is there to explain? Sure, alright, he has! He hates me and he’s never been exactly shy about letting me know! What else is there to _say_?”

Snape studied him, an odd expression in his eyes. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think Snape was a bit…unsettled. Ha! Not likely. He amended his absurd thoughts about the rigid Potions master and focused on the next question directed his way.

“Does the headmaster know how you are treated by your relatives?”

Harry shrugged again, then elaborated when a look at Snape confirmed that he wasn’t going to accept that in response to his question. “He knows they don’t want me. I’ve never talked to him about specifics, so I don’t know if he knows everything,” he said honestly, “not that I think it would really matter. He knows I hate it here, and he sent me back anyway. For my own good.” He said the last part bitterly, though he guessed he had come to accept the headmaster’s reasoning, albeit grudgingly. If he really was protected from Voldemort in this house, well…he guessed he could try to be mature enough to understand that there were worse things that could happen to him than being stuck with the Dursleys. Well, it was _possible_ that there were worse things, anyway.

Snape gestured, indicating to Harry that it was his turn. “Last question, Potter. For now,” he added firmly when it looked like Harry might protest. “I do believe we have each gleaned sufficient information for proper consideration. We may continue later if we are in agreement.”

Harry slowly nodded, part of him actually feeling kind of relieved. He could think of loads more questions to ask, but he was pretty exhausted from all they’d discussed about both Voldemort and the Durlseys. He guessed he really could do with a break.

This made him think hard about what questions he really wanted answered now, and he settled for focusing on an immediate concern. “Okay, so then…is Wormtail the only one watching the house or are there others? Are they taking turns or something?”

Snape pierced him with a stare, suspicion lacing his voice. “How do you know that Pettigrew was assigned to watch?”

“Oh. Um…” Oops. He hadn’t thought about the fact that Snape hadn’t told him that part, and he still wasn’t ready to discuss his vision. So instead, he explained in fair detail the accident he’d seen the day before—the car, the bike, the rat jumping off the hood. “I saw the rat and remembered what you’d said, and I just figured…”

Snape still looked suspicious. Harry could tell he didn’t really believe that was all there was to the story, but he answered Harry’s question without bringing up more of his own. “The Dark Lord will likely have only one person on watch at a time. He has other schemes to keep himself and his followers occupied. The individual on watch will, however, call others instantly to their side if they see you about to leave.”

“But I did leave. That’s what I don’t get! I was outside and they had a chance to get me, and they didn’t. Why?”

Snape leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, apparently finished with the conversation. “The wards, Potter. They extend to the edge of your aunt and uncle’s property. As long as you are within those boundaries, they cannot touch you.”

Snape’s eyes popped open and he fixed a warning glare on Harry. “You are not to take that to mean wandering the yard is permitted. Warded or no, once you are outside the front door, all available followers of the Dark Lord will be called and waiting for you to set one foot too far. An insignificant accident is not the only method they have at their disposal to try to lure you from safety.”

He glared at Harry until satisfied that he had properly understood, then leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes once more.

Harry did the same, mind reeling from all that he’d been told. In light of all that, he couldn’t help thinking of the prophecy again. How was he supposed to defeat Voldemort if he really was even more powerful than before? What hope did he have against all the plots and schemes and means at Voldemort’s disposal? It all seemed so daunting.

The earlier boredom was a distant memory as silence spread over the room, both wizards lost in thought. Harry barely registered the sounds of first Aunt Petunia and Dudley, then Uncle Vernon, arriving home again, nor did he pay attention to the fading light outside his window. He finally lay down, his growling stomach barely registering through the multitude of thoughts running through his mind.

Sleep eventually claimed him, all of his cares drifting away as he found himself transported to a familiar surrounding: the landscape of peaceful dreams, high above a Quidditch pitch on his broom. He soared high above the frenzy of players below him, and he felt free. But he at once had the nagging feeling this wasn’t the first time he had been here, that there was something important he hadn’t been able to do before.

A snitch was fluttering before him.

Catch the snitch, he thought. All other worries vanished, and he felt happy and determined. He just knew something important would happen if he could only _catch the snitch_.


	7. Catching the Snitch

Harry’s eyes shot open and blinked into the darkness of his room.

It took him a moment to realize that something had woken him. A sound. But what sound? He didn’t hear anything now.

In answer to his question, a low hoot drifted through Harry’s bedroom window.

_Hedwig?_

He grabbed for his glasses and jumped up and over to the window, alert in anticipation of seeing his one summer friend. And even his sleepy mind remembered right away that seeing Hedwig was the first step in getting rid of Snape. The darkness seemed just a little bit brighter to Harry as he looked through the window to the affectionate eyes of his snowy owl.

“Hey, Hedwig,” Harry whispered, grinning wider as he saw why she hadn’t edged through the window he always left ajar for her. Behind her in the moonlight were three more owls, all with brightly wrapped packages. Hedwig carried the largest of all, a square box wrapped in shimmering paper.

He glanced at the clock to confirm. 12:17. Today was his sixteenth birthday!

Just knowing that his friends had remembered it gave him a warm feeling inside. He had been in fairly constant contact with Ron and Hermione this summer, but not being able to see them was always hard to get used to in the summers, after almost daily contact throughout the school year. Getting something more than a letter made it feel like his friends were just a bit closer.

Hedwig was inching in now, and as soon as she and her package were through the bars, Harry relieved her of her burden. He noticed right off that the paper he’d thought was shimmering was actually decorated with tiny objects moving swiftly across it in every direction. A closer look in direct moonlight revealed tiny Quidditch players flying and dodging and chasing each other around the paper.

He tore his delighted eyes away to gather the rest of the packages from the owls, by now completely through the window and surrounding Hedwig’s cage. Thankfully, there was still enough water in Hedwig’s cage to satisfy all four. Harry quickly grabbed some owl treats, keeping careful watch on the still-sleeping Snape lest the man find out about his hiding place beneath the floorboards.

With all four owls occupied and resting, Harry sat with his bright packages and took his time deciding which to open first. He loved this feeling, and he closed his eyes, pretending for a moment that the people he loved the most were there with him, celebrating his birthday.

His hungry stomach rumbled at the telltale smell of Mrs. Weasley’s excellent cooking, and he could almost see Hermione and the Weasleys gathered around telling stories and playing games of chess and Exploding Snap. He smiled as he wondered what stunt the Weasley twins might pull for everyone’s amusement.

Not able to stand it any longer, he grabbed one of the boxes from the small pile and opened the letter attached to it.

His eyes strained to read the letter before he gave in—with a look at Snape’s sleeping back—and reached for the desk light. He did his best to shield it from Snape and let out a breath in relief as a full minute went by and the man didn’t stir.

The letter was written in Fred’s hasty scrawl.

_Harry,_

_Happy birthday! As our favorite investor, we’re giving you first look at our newest and greatest invention. No one knows about this yet, so keep it quiet! (Especially from our mum.)_

_Fred & George_

Curiosity piqued, he tore open the small oblong package as quickly and as quietly as he could and emptied the contents into his hand. There was a small paper attached to what looked to be a regular pair of reading glasses. Harry wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. He was sure the Weasleys wouldn’t consider a plain old pair of reading glasses their greatest invention. He turned over the small paper and read the short instructions.

**_Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes Wall Watcher_ **

**_Directions:_ ** _Place glasses on bridge of nose and secure to ears._

**_Warnings:_ ** _May cause dizziness; it is recommended to close eyes until glasses are fully in place. Use sparingly; object is not intended for extended wear._

**_Limitations:_ ** _Will not achieve same results with greater than one wall thickness. Does not counteract wards. Will not operate on objects not fastened to a wall, floor, or ceiling._

Hmm. Harry couldn’t resist. He removed his own glasses, closed his eyes, and secured the reading glasses onto his face. He opened his eyes slowly, directing them at the note, now blurry. Amazingly, though, the note began to come clear. Self-adjusting glasses! Harry was pleased, though he still didn’t quite get it. Why would the Weasleys send him a pair of wizarding glasses?

Putting the note aside, he looked back to the rest of his presents…and opened his eyes wide.

They were floating in mid-air.

Wait. They weren’t the only things floating—there was nothing underneath him, either! Startled, he felt all around him and was relieved to touch the solid ground. But he couldn’t see it. Looking down, there was only darkness, but glancing up, he could see the night sky clearly through where his bedroom wall and ceiling should have been. The hum of nocturnal insects reached him with perfect clarity.

Alarm forgotten as the sight awed him, he grinned. A pair of glasses that would let him see and hear between walls! He thought of a ton of uses for it. If he was ever at headquarters again, maybe he could find out what went on in those Order meetings. And while here, he could look at the stars while in his bed at night. And he could see out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear whenever he wanted out. Well…at least, that would help when the door wasn’t locked.

He removed and put them back in the box for safekeeping, putting his own glasses back into place. He could hardly wait for his new present to come in handy.

Harry reached for the largest present next, not able to resist the brightly wrapped package. The tiny Quidditch players were still zooming around all sides of the box, and as he watched, two players collided, sending up an outcry from both teams. Harry stifled a laugh until he realized they had stopped play and were starting to argue amongst themselves. Loudly.

His attempts to shush them weren’t doing any good, and he looked around for something to muffle them with. His hand was halfway to picking up one of his shirts when he felt, rather than saw, a certain pair of eyes on him.

He warily lifted his head.

Sure enough, Snape was propped up on his elbow in bed, staring at him with those coal black eyes. Eyes that were clearly annoyed at yet another rest being disturbed by a member of this household. Eyes that were now drifting from Harry to the packages on the floor to the open window and finally to the four owls perched on the desk.

Snape abruptly sat up. “How long have these owls been here?” he hissed.

“They just got here,” Harry whispered, busying his hands with draping a shirt over his present. The players instantly quieted down. He directed his focus back to Snape and the professor’s clearly disbelieving glare. “Well, maybe a few minutes ago,” Harry admitted, bracing himself.

Snape looked about ready to explode, but instead he reached for the pile of parchment he had penned the day before and snatched up the top sheet. Rolling it up, he grated through his teeth, “I have been waiting nearly two days for your owl to return so that I can post a message to Dumbledore. After everything I detailed to you yesterday, and the time-sensitive nature of this war, would it not occur to you to wake me _immediately_ upon its return?”

Without waiting for a response, he stalked over to the desk and handed the note to Hedwig, clearly the most fit and rested of the owls. “Take this to Albus Dumbledore,” he ordered. “Deliver it directly into his hands and do not leave until he has read it.”

Hedwig hooted and left right away, clearly having sensed the urgency of the missive.

Snape turned to survey the room, eyes resting once more on the small pile of presents. “What is this?” he questioned, his stance rigid.

Harry felt a weight settle on his chest. Snape was the absolute last person on earth he wanted to share his birthday with, even under normal circumstances. But everything they’d discussed the day before came rushing back to him, and he felt his face involuntarily heat up with mortification. How could it have seemed alright at the time to admit his childhood woes to Snape, of all people? What had he been _thinking_?

But it was too late now to go back and change things. And right then, with Snape staring down at him and Harry mulling over every detail the man had gleaned about him, even the thought of all he’d learned in exchange didn’t cheer him up.

He dropped his eyes, not wanting to meet Snape’s any longer. He didn’t feel like picking a fight, but he didn’t feel like making nice either. He just wanted the older wizard to go away. Far away. Maybe to another planet where he’d never have to see him again or face the fact that he knew those things about Harry. Yeah, that far away would be nice.

Snape tapped his foot, the motion comical in his socks and too-short trousers. Harry might have laughed if he didn’t feel the situation so unfunny. “What. Is. This?” The professor voiced his question again, just as quietly, but with a dangerous edge that clearly said that he despised being ignored.

Harry let out a breath. “It’s my birthday,” he admitted, forcing his eyes back up to meet Snape’s. “These are birthday presents,” he explained simply.

Snape crossed his arms and stared at him for a long moment with an inscrutable expression. Harry wasn’t sure what to expect. A lecture about impatience and opening presents in the middle of the night, perhaps? Or would he harp more on the topic of not waking him right away?

But Snape skipped the topic of Harry’s birthday altogether with an entirely different observation. “I smell food,” he declared, and stalked nearer to Harry. “Where is it?”

“Food?” Harry repeated, confused. He looked around at the flap in the door and saw that nothing had been left for him. He was about to say as much when his nose again caught the scent of delicious food and his stomach rumbled loudly in demand. The smell was so good, in fact, that Harry didn’t know how he had kept from tearing into it already. Quickly, he again unearthed the large Quidditch-decorated present and ripped open the wrapping before the players could think of continuing their fight.

The heavenly aroma drifted even stronger from the open package as Harry lifted out several small containers: some kind of casserole, a few whole pieces of fruit, and a generous helping of cake and pudding. There were even utensils! Forgetting Snape for a moment, he smiled in delight and tore open the attached card.

_Harry,_

_Hey, mate! How has your summer been? Are the Muggles treating you alright?_

_Not much going on here. Mum and Dad haven’t let me and Ginny out much this summer. I think they’re worried about You-Know-Who. But we’re going crazy cooped up like this. I guess you know what it’s like, though, from what you’ve said about your summers, huh?_

_Here’s something to help you look forward to Quidditch next year. And mum sent you some things in case the Muggles put Dudley on a diet again. The sugar plum pudding was my idea. Happy birthday!_

_Ron_

Harry peeked at the bottom of the box and pulled out some Quidditch trading cards and assorted wizarding candy. Putting Ron’s gifts aside for later perusal, he opened the food containers and breathed in deeply.

His enjoyment was cut short by the sound of a throat clearing, and a glance upward revealed Snape towering over him, tapping his foot again in impatience.

“I do not deny that starving has its appeal when compared to being trapped together in this room. I, however, would prefer to have a choice in the matter,” Snape snapped, irritation in every syllable. He stared pointedly at the food, then back at Harry.

“Oh. Right.” Harry sorely wished he didn’t have a conscience as he gripped the container filled with casserole and remembered that Snape had gone even longer without food than he had. He held the container for a moment longer, then slowly, reluctantly held it out to share. Snape snatched up the entire container, snaking another hand out to grab a piece of fruit from Harry’s stash.

Harry’s glare was conveniently ignored as Snape settled himself at the desk to eat, immediately biting into the juicy piece of fruit.

But angry though he was, he was surprised to feel relief as well. Nothing seemed to have changed between him and his hated professor. The unsettled feeling he’d had since their uncharacteristically civil conversation several hours prior began to ease. Who’d have thought that he’d actually be relieved to be dealing with a bitter, disagreeable Snape over the one from yesterday? And yet he did. _This_ Snape was familiar ground. _This_ Snape made him feel like he hadn’t bared all of his secrets.

Well, not all of his secrets, he supposed. Thank Merlin the professor still didn’t know about the cupboard or how bad his nightmares could get or the extent of Dudley’s bullying as a kid…or a number of other details Harry could do without having revealed.

_Yeah_ , he forced himself to be grateful, _things could be worse_.

A glance at the remaining presents from his friends further drove it home. Yeah, things could definitely be a lot worse than having friends who cared about him enough to not only remember his birthday, but have their parents send food just when he most needed some. He bit into one of the pieces of fruit and forced himself to forget about Snape’s nastiness long enough to return to the next package.

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy birthday! I hope you are able to properly celebrate it this year. I sent you something I think you might enjoy. Yes, it’s a book, but before you decide the summer holidays shouldn’t include reading, open it. I really think you’ll like it._

_Ron told me his parents have been trying to talk Dumbledore into letting you stay at Headquarters for the rest of the summer so they can see you. He hasn’t said yes yet, but Ron, Ginny, and I are going to be there the last week of summer and I really hope he’ll let you come then._

_You haven’t received your O.W.L. results yet, have you? They should be out any day now, and I’ve been checking for the owl post hourly just to see if they’ve arrived. I can’t wait to finalize my selection of classes with Professor McGonagall. I tried to already, but she told me that even though she was sure I passed all of my subjects, I’d have to wait for my O.W.L results like everybody else. It’s killing me!_

_Well, again, I do hope you have a happy birthday!_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Harry grinned. Leave it to Hermione to revive his good mood, just by being her school-obsessed self.

He tore into the package, which, sure enough, was just large enough to hold a book, and read the long title, _Advanced Practical Defense Techniques: Dueling, Blocking, and Avoiding Catastrophe_ , by Gerhaardt Blund. Harry leafed through it and was pleasantly surprised to find it full of useful information, much of which he hadn’t learned before. It looked like it would be easy to follow, too, with anecdotes, diagrams, and even step by step instructions for some of the most advanced spells.

_Thank you, Hermione_ , he thought with a smile.

“Well, well. Harry Potter, not only holding a book in his hands, but smiling about it. Will wonders never cease?” Snape’s dry comment drew Harry’s attention back to his…well, cellmate, for all intents and purposes.

Snape took another bite of the casserole, having finished off his piece of fruit. Harry noted that the man didn’t look quite as irritable as before, probably a product of having food in his stomach. He was leaning back in the chair, now facing Harry, and Harry let out a scowl at being the man’s dinner entertainment.

Snape merely took another bite and continued to watch him, indifferent to his obvious resentment.

Well, Harry could play the ‘I’m ignoring you’ game just as well as Snape could—just see if he couldn’t. Setting the book aside, he turned to his final package and read the brief note.

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I found something that I thought you should have. It belonged to Sirius. If you would like to individualize it, I would be happy to show you how to do so. Happy birthday._

_Remus Lupin_

Harry lay down the letter with shaking hands. Remus had never given him a birthday gift before. That and knowing that it was something that had belonged to Sirius…and Harry felt a keen sense of nervous anticipation as he reached for the final remaining package. It was small and wrapped in bright gold paper. He found it difficult to open with his shaky fingers, but the wrapping eventually fell away.

He opened the small gift box inside the wrapping and lifted out a very old-looking pocket watch. It was silver, with tiny inscriptions on both the outside and the inside, so tiny that he couldn’t make them out in the dim light from his lamp. The inside of the watch reminded him of the clock he’d seen at the Weasleys several times before. Where numbers would usually be on a Muggle watch, this one had words. Very tiny words to fit around the edge of its face: “tower,” “detention,” “class,” “great hall,” “forest,” “grounds,” and “on holiday,” were squeezed into the space. On the hands, making his heart skip a beat, he saw the names of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

All four hands were pointing to “on holiday,” the only designation on the watch for not being at Hogwarts.

Harry swallowed. Hard.

If only it were that simple…that his father and Sirius were simply on holiday. It would mean they weren’t really gone forever. That they’d be back soon…with Harry.

His eyes were moist, and he put the watch back in its box before he did the unthinkable and cried in front of Snape.

He couldn’t help a glance back up at his professor, which only confirmed, to his irritation, that he was still being watched.

“Must be quite a present,” Snape commented between bites. “It nearly brought a Gryffindor to tears.” Harry gritted his teeth and refused to look in his direction, but Snape leaned over to peer at the letter’s signature anyway. “Ah, it was from Lupin. That explains the overt sentimentality.”

Harry bit back a reply and gathered up his presents in a hurry and stuffed them into the corner of his wardrobe, careful to hide the book under a few shirts. It wasn’t likely that his uncle would come digging through his things, but he would be better off without a clearly magical book out in plain sight.

“So what did the sentimental werewolf send you?”

“Just a watch. Nothing important,” Harry blurted, just to shut the man up. He was getting more and more annoyed by his taunts and questions. What, did Snape think that just because he was here in Harry’s bedroom and had found out a few details about Harry’s life, he was entitled to know everything now? Snape had another thing coming if he thought Harry was going to pour out his grief for his lost parents and godfather right here and now. Or anywhere where Snape was present, as a matter of fact.

Why did he care, anyway? Oh, but wait. Snape had that puzzle-figuring face back on. The one Harry was beginning to recognize as his “play almost-nice to get the information I want” face. The one he had hoped he’d been rid of earlier.

Well, Harry didn’t have to play nice. He firmly closed the wardrobe door behind him and hardened his face into a glare at the other wizard. “I am terribly sorry to have disturbed your sleep, professor. I am sure you must be positively exhausted,” he said in a false tone dripping with saccharine sweetness.

“So hospitable, Potter. I’d never have guessed.” Snape stared at Harry another moment, expressionless, before turning to the bed, his back to Harry once more.

Harry shook his head. At least he could count on an insult. But no fight?

Snape was starting to give him a really bad headache. He’d never had trouble predicting what he would do before—or at least how nasty it would be—but after yesterday, he felt tossed back and forth. The bitter Snape, the one who hated him and whom he’d always known, was still there for the most part, but now it was like he had another Snape on his hands. A Snape who asked questions—personal questions—and noticed his reactions to things. And treated him not as much with hate, but with…well, he would describe it as calculating calm. This not knowing which Snape he would be dealing with from minute to minute was getting tiresome.

At least he didn’t have a Snape who genuinely cared about him, he reflected and nearly gagged at the thought. That was one Snape he’d have absolutely no clue how to handle. Ugh. He shuddered and pushed that nausea-rising thought out of his head.

It was a good thing _that_ would never happen.

Turning out the light, he settled back into his bed of shirts and emptied his head of all thoughts save one: If all went well, tomorrow he would be rid of both sides of Severus Snape.

Harry fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

The sky was clear above the Quidditch pitch, and Harry felt free, basking in the sun in mid-air. He was so relaxed, it took him a moment to remember that he was in the middle of a Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. Players flew in a maddening frenzy below him, and he pulled his broom higher so that they looked like bees furiously flying around their hive. He wondered absently if bees ever had wars like people did. Something about that thought triggered a faint memory. Had he been here before?

A cheer rang out from the crowd as Gryffindor’s Chaser sent the quaffle through the goal, and his thoughts shifted back to the game. Harry raised his arm in a silent cheer for his teammates and scanned over the pitch for the tiny, golden snitch. It sometimes took hours to locate the elusive snitch, but this time it took Harry only minutes to see a shimmering dot slightly lower in the sky than he was. He dove straight for it and closed his hand around it in one swoop.

Completely exhilarated, he raised his arm once more in victory, lowering his face to share his excitement with an uproarious crowd.

But where the crowd was a moment ago, he found himself looking upon an endless field, the landscape broken only by the occasional ruin jutting out of the ground.

He swiveled around. Where was he? Where were all the people?

The air was stale, like he wasn’t outside at all, but inside an enclosed box that had been too long forgotten in an abandoned attic. Stillness was everywhere—no wind was blowing; not even the smallest blade of grass was moving. Nothing seemed right about the scene in which he found himself.

His hand loosened from around the snitch he still held, and it sprang free, fluttering all around him before flying away. Leaning forward, Harry urged his broom to follow. He flew for what seemed like hours before he saw a glimpse of what looked like smoke on the horizon. He flew faster.

When he reached his destination, it was to find the aftermath of a recent battle. Smoke from the charred remains of a village permeated the air and left Harry gasping for breath. He considered leaving but flew closer to the ground instead, giving wide berth to the heavily smoking areas. Houses were burned to the ground and debris was strewn everywhere.

And then he saw the bodies. Young, old, men, women, children. Their lifeless bodies spotted the streets, some drenched in blood, some burned beyond recognition. He closed his eyes against rising nausea and raised his broom again into the air. He already knew he wouldn’t find anyone alive. He was too late to save anyone.

He circled the perimeter of the town, hoping for a glance of something familiar, something that would tell him where he was. And then he saw it. A sign, blurred through the smoke. He flew closer, closer. He could almost make it out…

HOGSMEADE

He couldn’t breathe. The ruins. The bodies. Hogsmeade. Was this really happening?

He turned in the direction that should lead him to Hogwarts and found a nearly identical scene to the one he had left. Hogwarts was burned to the ground. Bodies were scattered in every direction, and he didn’t dare get close enough to see if he recognized any of them.

He was frozen in shock, letting his broom keep him in the air.

“It happened quickly,” came a voice to his left. Harry whirled around. He was in shock, yes, but that didn’t account for what he was seeing now.

He was looking at _himself_. A mirror image of Harry was sitting on a broom several yards from where he was hovering on his own broom. The other Harry was staring at the carnage before them.

“They knew it was coming, of course,” he went on. “It was only a matter of time after you were defeated. You were their last hope. Partly their fault, perhaps, for putting too much faith in one person, but then that’s what people do, don’t they?” He looked up, a sad smile on his face. “Look for a savior, I mean.”

Harry opened his mouth several times before he could voice his question. “Who are you?”

“I am you. I’m the part of yourself you will only see in dreams. In your waking hours you allow too much to distract you. You distance yourself from me.”

Harry’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I…I don’t understand. Are you real? Is this a dream?”

“Yes, this is a dream. Does that make it any less real?” He shrugged.

“But I am imagining you, aren’t I? I’m imagining this.”

The other Harry gestured around them, at the field of smoke and blood. “Does it matter? This is real, Harry. This is what will come of Hogwarts, of Britain, of the world, if the war against Voldemort is lost. That _that_ is real is what matters. The rest you will come to understand in time.”

“No! I want to understand now!” He was suddenly angry. And frightened. And though he somehow knew by now that he was caught in a dream, that this was not reality, he nonetheless understood that this very well could become a reality if the war was lost. Was this inevitable? Would he fail and would this fate be in store for his friends, no matter his efforts? “Please,” he began again, pleading this time, “Please. I need to understand. Tell me. Are you real? Am I imagining this because this is my fear? Or am I really, truly seeing the future? Please, you have to tell me.”

The other Harry looked at him with sympathy before scanning his eyes over the desolate battlefield. He said nothing for several minutes, and when he looked back up, Harry could see tears beginning to form in his eyes. “I know that you feel alone…I know, because I am a part of you, Harry. You hold a great weight on your shoulders, but I hold much of the weight so that you don’t have to. One day, you will be fully aware of me. But not today, Harry. You’re not ready.”

“Well, that’s just great! Even my own subconscious thinks I’m still a child! How can I be ready to fight a war if _I_ don’t even trust me enough to tell _myself_ what is going on?” His rage was simmering below the surface, ready to burst forth.

“Ah. That’s just it, Harry. You’re not ready to fight the war, and like it or not, you _are_ still a child. You know that. You even want that more than you’d like to admit. You’re growing up, certainly, which is why you are now seeing me at all. But ‘growing up’ isn’t ‘grown.’ You have a ways to go before you can claim that.

“Here,” he continued, and threw a small object toward Harry, who easily caught it. It was the snitch. “You’ll need that.”

The shiny golden ball in Harry’s grasp was swirling with colors, and as Harry watched, a clear image of Dumbledore appeared and winked out at him before calling to him jovially, “Sugar plums, Harry. It’s all about the sugar plums!” The image of Dumbledore raised a glass in a mock toast before disappearing from sight. Harry looked up, confused.

“There was another prophecy, Harry,” Other Harry said, ignoring the image in the snitch. “It was made after Voldemort tried to kill you as an infant. That’s what I came to tell you. Dumbledore didn’t show it to you because he knew it wasn’t about you; it was about someone else. But like most things connected to this war, it concerns you.

“Talk with Dumbledore. Tell him about me. Tell him I’ve seen the future unfold. And tell him to let the prophecy run its course. He’ll be able to explain the rest.”

He turned then and flew a short distance away from a speechless Harry before calling back, “I am the part of you who sees what may come, Harry. You are the part of me who can stop it.” He then swiveled back around on his broom and flew away.

“Wait! Come back!” Harry yelled at the retreating figure. But when he blinked his eyes, the figure and his broom were gone.

The snitch in his hand was still, and he saw only his reflection in it this time.

Taking stock of his surroundings, he found that he had drifted lower during their exchange, and now as he glanced below him, he could make out a shock of red hair in the rubble. He couldn’t stop his eyes from scanning the figure. It was Fred…or George. He couldn’t tell, and a moment later he knew it didn’t matter. An identical body was lying next to it, arm raised above his head as if trying to fend off a curse. They must have come to defend the school together, and they had died together.

Harry was going to be sick. He knew he should leave. He’d had the good sense earlier to stay far enough away not to see his lifeless friends. But he couldn’t, not now. Not being so close to them. He knew without wondering how, that he was a part of the scene. He was as part of it as the collapsed astronomy tower beyond, and his only escape was in waking.

Then he saw them. Right near the dead, blackened remains of the weeping willow. They were all there: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Luna... Almost the entire DA was near that one spot. They must have tried to use it as a cover, or a strategy of escape. Only, their lifeless bodies attested to the failure of that plan.

Harry landed and jumped off his broom next to Ron. The red-haired boy was dirty and covered in blood. Harry couldn’t tell how he had been killed, nor did he care to find out. He was dead; that’s all that mattered. He and the others were dead because Harry had failed.

He had failed them.

The tears he had kept at bay ran down his cheeks in a silent stream of guilt and sorrow.

“No,” he whispered. “It hasn’t happened yet, Ron. Do you hear me? It hasn’t happened. You’re not dead. I won’t let you be dead. I’ll fix this. I swear I’ll fix this.”

He tried to wake up, willed himself to open his eyes and escape from this nightmare of death and ruins. But every time he closed and opened his eyes, the scenery turned more hopeless. His eyes filled with the horror before him. An endless sea of bodies, all bloody, some burned. His senses slowly came more aware, and his nostrils filled with the stench of burning and death.

He clutched at the snitch. He felt sicker than he’d ever felt in his life. He needed to retch, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t leave.

He needed release from the horror he felt inside.

And so he did the only thing his body would let him do.

He screamed.


	8. Of Wizards and Muggles

Harry couldn’t stop screaming. No words, just screams. Terrified, anguished screams.

He tried to move, tried to wake, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in his nightmare. Panic overtook his fear and sorrow as soon as this realization cut through his shock. What if he couldn’t wake up? What if he was stuck forever in this frozen moment where nothing moved and nothing lived?

His screams gained momentum, broken only by his short, shallow gasps for air.

Maybe if he screamed loudly enough, someone somewhere would hear him. Anyone. He didn’t want to face this alone.

Please, he thought, unable to articulate the words through the screams, just don’t make me face this alone.

Not all alone.

He paused again to gasp for breath when he felt something against the skin on his arm. No, some _one_. Someone had hold of his arm. He looked around himself frantically but saw nothing but the battlefield. No one but the dead.

He opened his mouth to continue his screams and again felt the pressure on his arm. It was shaking him. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew there was someone there. He reached out, blindly, and encountered a solid form. Warm, breathing.

Alive.

He latched onto the form, clinging for dear life, lest the form which was invisible to his eyes vanish from touch as well.

It tried to push him away.

No! He closed his fists tighter, panic fighting off the momentary comfort he’d felt. The form didn’t want him. It was pushing him back toward the nightmare. His breaths started coming in short gasps again, and he felt a scream beginning in the back of his throat.

The form stopped pushing him away and after a brief hesitation, drew him close.

The scream died on his lips. He felt warmth on his face. A heart was beating next to his cheek. He concentrated on the feeling, which soon became a sound, and then a scent of plant and cloves. The earthy scent drew him further and further from the horror. The bodies gradually faded, and the battlefield vanished from sight. With a final shudder, he could feel himself rising up, up through the clouds toward the light.

And with the light came more sound. The sounds had been there for a while, he realized. He hadn’t been able to hear them, but some part of himself had been resisting their call.

Someone was yelling his name.

“Potter, wake up. Potter! It’s a dream, Potter!” Over and over the voice called out to him.

And there were more sounds. Stuttering, frightened sounds. A piercing shriek that hurt his ears. He burrowed his head in the fabric covering the beating heart. Arms were holding him, and he felt a hand awkwardly, hesitantly, pat his back. Once. Twice.

It felt good. Like…like he wasn’t alone after all.

He slowly opened his eyes. Blinking, he moved his head so that he could see. It was light out. Morning. He squinted into the brightness above him.

Terror and comfort vanished as one, replaced by shock as he stared up into the uneasy eyes of one Severus Snape. The form. Snape.

Snape.

Was holding him.

Harry started, broke free from Snape’s grasp, and pushed away from him so quickly that he stumbled back onto the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he put a few more steps between himself and the still-kneeling wizard. Harry’s face felt wet, and with a touch of his hand to his cheek, he realized that he had been crying. He swiped at his face with both hands, trying to erase all hint of tears.

Now completely awake, he was able to pinpoint the other previously disjointed sounds in the room.

The Dursleys— _all_ of the Dursleys—were standing in Harry’s doorway. Vernon had stopped mid-stride, probably afraid to come any closer because of the likelihood of Snape being a wizard. He was stuttering. A lot. Harry couldn’t quite make out words, but the man was the angry purple color that he had grown really, really used to this summer.

Harry backed up toward the window, just in case, and stumbled again, this time catching himself before he could fall.

Petunia, in contrast to her husband, was white as a sheet. She was cowering in the doorway, with Dudley right behind straining for a glimpse at what had his parents so worked up. Catching sight of Snape, he immediately yelped, covered his behind with one hand and his mouth with the other, and ran straight back to his room, slamming the door behind him. Harry thought he heard something scraping across the floor, like maybe Dudley was trying to barricade himself in his room.

Yeah, like that would help if wizards really were out to get him, Harry managed the sardonic thought through his muddled emotions.

Snape rose to his feet in one smooth motion, which set Vernon to stuttering actual words.

“You! Y—you’re one of… _them_! Aren’t you?” Vernon barked.

Harry couldn’t remember having seen Snape looking this uncomfortable before, but the man did. He looked positively ill at ease. Harry didn’t know if it was because of the Dursleys or because he had just done the unthinkable: comforted _Harry Potter_ , of all people, from a nightmare. Only then did Harry notice the dark spot on the man’s chest where his tears had soaked through the shirt.

_Oh, Merlin._ Harry’s face heated with mortification. He had grabbed Snape, clung to him. To _Snape_. He tried not to think about it, which was _incredibly_ hard to do.

Snape schooled his features, stood up straight, and addressed Uncle Vernon. “Mr. Dursley, I presume?” Snape gave a slight bow in introduction, playing every bit the gentlewizard, though his slight sneer told a different story. “Severus Snape. I am a professor at your nephew’s school.” He still looked intimidating despite the less-than-menacing clothing he wore. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Uncle Vernon would have already run in fear if he had been faced with Snape’s customarily darker and more threatening appearance.

“I knew it! I KNEW it!” Vernon exploded and instead of addressing Snape, swiveled toward Harry. “I told you NO FREAKS! So what do you do? You go and start invading the neighborh—” Vernon broke off as his widening eyes caught sight of something to the side. Harry followed his eyes to the three owls which were still perched on and around the desk, calmly watching the humans argue. One emitted a curious hoot at the sudden quiet.

Uncle Vernon’s simmering rage boiled over. Ignoring Snape completely, he stalked right up to Harry until they were nose to nose. Well, nearly, if Harry had been slightly taller. Harry backed up a step, which put him square into the wall, but Vernon didn’t touch him, though he hissed so close to his face that he could feel the man’s breath. “ _I warned you, boy!_ I told you no more stick waving or birds or freakish behavior! I’ll have none of this, you hear? I put up with you long enough in this house. I don’t have to put up with your freak friends too! You send him and those birds packing right this minute or you can just go live on the streets for all I care! Better than you screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night, disturbing my sleep! _I told you no more nightmares!_ ” Harry grimaced as he felt Vernon’s spit on his face during the tirade.

He issued an automatic “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” then, “I mean, no, Uncle Vernon. I mean…” Harry didn’t know what to say without making things worse. But he knew he’d better come up with it fast. Somehow he was sure that starting with, _Professor Snape has to stay inside just like me to hide from the evil wizards, but don’t worry, there’s only a slight to average chance he might curse you_ , probably wasn’t the best approach.

Snape. He was just standing there, expressionlessly watching Harry stutter like a wimp to his uncle. That was enough to make Harry straighten up to his full height. He wasn’t going to look weak. Not with Snape, not with Voldemort, and not with his ridiculous Muggle uncle.

“Uncle Vernon,” he managed with more confidence than he felt, “Professor Snape came here to save my life. If I send him out now, he’ll be killed.” Harry didn’t bother inserting that Snape was the older and more experienced wizard, so there was little chance Harry or Vernon could force to him to do anything he didn’t want to do. Besides, Vernon Dursley hated anyone who thought they were stronger or smarter than he was. (His uncle just wasn’t smart enough to realize how many people fit that description.)

“Professor Snape let someone from the school know he’s here,” Harry continued his explanation, “and they should be coming to get him anytime. So if you’ll just wait for them to—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, for Vernon grabbed him then by both shoulders and shook him roughly, screaming into his face, “YOU CALLED MORE FREAKS? TO MY HOUSE!” Vernon continued with his rant, shaking Harry all the while, but Harry stopped listening. White hot flashes of pain were shooting through his sore shoulder, and he actually thought for a moment that he might pass out. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry out.

“V—Vernon!” Petunia’s voice cut through Uncle Vernon’s rant. “Vernon, stop!”

Harry felt the shaking end, and though his shoulder felt like it had been ripped from its socket, he opened his eyes, desperate for something to distract himself from the pain.

Vernon still had a tight hold on Harry, but he was looking over his own shoulder now, at his wife. Petunia was inching along the wall toward them, terrified eyes fixed on Snape, who remained frozen in place in the middle of the room. She didn’t really need to keep such a close watch—Snape’s focus wasn’t on her. His eyes were fixed, not even on Harry, but on Vernon’s hands where they gripped Harry’s still-injured shoulder. Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking, though his whole body had stiffened.

Not taking her eyes off of Snape, Petunia lay a bony hand over one of her husband’s and pried it from Harry’s arm. “Vernon, l—let the boy g—go.”

Harry looked at his aunt, shocked beyond all thought. She’d been kinder to him lately, sure. But she almost never interfered outright with Uncle Vernon’s punishments, and this made twice in the last 24 hours. Harry didn’t know what to think, and he worked hard to try to squelch an unfamiliar feeling…was it hope? No. How could it be? Aunt Petunia had never cared for him, and he’d given up longing for a mother in her years ago. He was sixteen, after all, and way beyond the age where he craved a mother’s tender love…but if that was true, then why did he feel an inexplicable yearning suddenly rise within him…a hunger for something he knew he’d never have?

Dare he hope? Did Petunia maybe care for him in some way she was only now beginning to show? Even a little?

Harry watched her carefully, still aware of the pain in his body, but not caring anymore. He searched her face, though her eyes were still trained away from his. He couldn’t see anything beyond fear, but he searched for the smallest sign of…something, anything.

Vernon let go of Harry completely, turning to his wife, speechless. His face was losing some of its purple, and it occurred to Harry that Vernon was just as baffled by his wife’s behavior as he had been.

Petunia whispered to her husband, quietly enough to guarantee to herself that Snape wouldn’t hear. She couldn’t know what Harry was all too familiar with from Potions class: that the Potions professor rarely missed anything. Harry couldn’t count how many times the professor had taken off points for a whispered comment that he had heard perfectly from the complete opposite side of the classroom.

Her whispered voice shook, “Vernon, he’s one of the boy’s kind. Remember what we talked about—no touching the boy while there might be freaks around. There’s no telling what they might get it in their heads to do to us.”

Harry’s heart sank and his head felt hot. He’d known he was a right fool, getting his hopes up like that. He knew from experience that they’d just be dashed to the ground and stomped on completely. Petunia was never worried about him, not even yesterday when she’d had him wondering. She was just worried about herself. Worried that the ‘freaks’ wouldn’t do anything to her and her own.

And it was reinforced to him yet again that ‘her own’ didn’t include Harry.

He was angry, but mostly he felt defeated. It had been years since he’d hoped for the impossible. The hope had felt so good, which made reality feel all the worse.

He refocused on the other occupants of the room, desperate for a distraction from his self-pity. Harry had missed whatever reply Vernon made to Petunia, but at least her interference had served its purpose of distracting him from Harry. However, Vernon was still angry; there was no doubting that. He wasn’t done wanting to make a scene.

Instead of bullying Harry, Vernon focused his attention on Snape. Perhaps the fact that the man hadn’t made so much as a threat bolstered his own confidence. He raised his hand to point directly at Snape. “Out! OUT! Get out of my house this instant! I won’t have YOUR KIND in my own house! OUT!” He pointed to the door then, and Petunia hopped in surprise, scrambling to the other side of Vernon so that she would be out of Snape’s way.

Snape didn’t move. He had taken in the entire scene in silence, and he now watched Vernon Dursley’s yelling and wild motioning and facial color changes as if he were eyeing a dull but annoying little insect.

Snape tilted his head slightly back and looked down his hooked nose at the rotund man. He answered evenly—and rather snottily, in Harry’s opinion—“I would relish nothing more, Mr. Dursley, than to depart from your scurrilous company. Nevertheless, I regret that that is not an option.”

Vernon was taken aback at Snape’s refusal to comply.

So was Harry, come to think of it, albeit for a different reason. He hadn’t the slightest clue what was going through Snape’s mind, but knowing how nasty the man could get, his calm facade wasn’t boding well. Harry was getting a little worried, and he had the feeling that he should do something, intervene somehow. But he still didn’t know any better than he did earlier what to say that wouldn’t make it worse, so he stayed silent.

He considered prayer though. For Uncle Vernon’s benefit.

Vernon was getting flustered at being refused, so he tried another tactic. “Get out,” he took a deep breath and screamed, “OR ELSE!”

Snape’s eye twitched, though he merely responded with a calm, simple, “no.”

Vernon’s whole body screamed rage, from his dark face to his clenched fists.

The room was silent for several long minutes as the two men faced each other, one in agitation, the other with indifferent calm.

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon didn’t know what to do. He relied on his skills of intimidation to get what he wanted, and Snape quite simply refused to be intimidated. And while Vernon may have been the more bulky of the two, Snape was the taller and obviously more physically fit. Even Vernon, with all of his Harry-bullying down pat, had to know that turning to physical means with a fully grown man wasn’t a wise course of action. So he glared, out of options but refusing to back down.

Snape stared right back, calm turning swiftly to boredom. Recognizing that shift in Snape’s eyes, Harry couldn’t help but think of all of the enemies Snape had to have faced over the course of his life, not least of all Voldemort himself. By comparison, Vernon probably seemed like an annoying little gnat that wasn’t worth the trouble of devoting a second of time or energy to.

Harry had had enough. Little as he cared for the Dursleys, he had to do something before Vernon gave Snape a real reason to rid himself of his annoyance. And Harry was afraid to witness just what course of action Snape might choose to take. A shudder ran through him as part of his nightmare flashed through his eyes. He’d seen enough of the result of violence in his sleep. He didn’t think he could bear to see more in his waking hours.

He launched himself away from the wall before he could rethink his decision and moved so that he stood between the two men. Facing Snape, back to Vernon, he forced himself to meet his professor’s eyes, though he could barely do so without embarrassment flooding back through him.

“Don’t,” he said, hating that it sounded like he was pleading. Still, if that’s what it took… “Don’t hurt them.”

Snape’s eyes betrayed his surprise as he evaluated Harry’s earnest stance. He opened his mouth to speak, but Vernon beat him to it, swiveling Harry around—thankfully by his good arm—so that he was now facing Vernon. “Hurt us! What, you think I can’t take care of my own family?” He shoved his nose in the air in a less subtle imitation of Snape’s earlier gesture and started in on the professor again. “You can’t do anything. Just you try. I’ll slap a lawsuit on you before you know what hit you! Breaking and entering! And stealing for all I know. Food from my own table, no doubt, you THIEF!” Vernon was getting worked up again. Happily. Physical intimidation was discarded as he discovered the joy of legal intimidation. He rocked back on his heels, pleased with his own ingenuity.

“That’s right,” he continued, sure that the other man would be begging for mercy soon, “I know some of the best lawyers in the country, I do! If you don’t get out of my house this minute, I’ll be seeing you in court!” Vernon was positively smug.

Harry was glad that he couldn’t see Snape’s face right that minute, and he inched a little to the side so he was dead center between the men. He didn’t fancy making it too easy for Snape to reach out and choke Uncle Vernon, no matter how much Harry felt like doing it himself.

It occurred to him, then, how bizarre this whole situation was—that he would be standing guard between the two banes of his existence, his torturer at home and his tormentor at school. It was almost surreal.

It didn’t get any less strange in the next instant, as a scratching sound and a fluttering came from the direction of the window. All eyes turned to take in Hedwig, who was making her way through the bars with a long, narrow box in her grasp. She immediately flew in their direction, and Petunia ducked in panic as the owl fluttered past her.

Snape stepped back to accept the package Hedwig deposited into his grasp, and her delivery accepted, she fluttered back to her cage and water bowl. The other owls hooted in welcome.

Harry ignored Vernon, who wasn’t looking quite so smug after having lost his captive audience, and spun round to see just what Dumbledore had sent. Harry had expected something like a posse of wizards to come to retrieve Snape, not a package delivered by owl post.

Snape pulled a long, narrow wand from the box before lifting out a small slip of paper and scanning it. Raising his eyes, he met Harry’s questioning glance and, to Harry’s pleasant surprise, handed him the paper to read.

Harry passed his eyes over the short, direct note. There was no address, no signature. Only three short phrases:

_Temporary untraceable wand enclosed. Box is Portkey. Every unusual creature deemed risky._

Harry looked up. Snape was watching him intently, though Harry couldn’t imagine what he might be looking for. The note didn’t give much to react to, did it? Although Harry did wonder where the Portkey might send Snape that would warrant a warning about “unusual creatures.”

Vernon cleared his throat, a loud, grating noise intended to bring the attention back to himself. Until he saw the wand, that is. Vernon shuffled back at the sight and grasped out again for Harry’s arm—the bad one this time—to pull him back with him. Harry let out a barely stifled moan at yet another jostle to his shoulder.

“Put it down! Put that thing down NOW!” Vernon yelled, holding Harry in front of him as a shield from whatever curse he was sure was about to be hurled his way. He was shaking, both from rage and from fear.

Snape, of course, no more listened to him about the wand than he had about anything else. His swift glance took in the terrified Petunia, purple-faced Vernon, and Harry, forcefully held within his uncle’s grasp.

Harry wished Snape would just leave already. He could now. He had the Portkey, and he had a wand, even. Harry couldn’t stand to deal with any more humiliation than he had already in the last several days. His uncle, the room, his nightmare, and everything Snape had learned about him intertwined with the physical pain swimming through his head.

“Go,” he said quickly. “Just go,” he repeated, trying to keep the pain out of his eyes as he met Snape’s strangely uncertain ones. He blinked, willing his glare to harden. The last thing he wanted when the school year began was for Snape to have more pitying memories to lord over him.

So when Snape turned to the bed to gather up his stack of parchment and a bundle that appeared to be his torn Death Eater cloak, Harry nearly sighed with relief. One more minute, and Snape would be gone.

But Snape didn’t activate the Portkey.

Instead, turning back round with an unintelligible oath, he raised his wand to Uncle Vernon’s eye level and pointed it straight at the large man. “I would suggest you remove your hands from your nephew, Mr. Dursley,” he stated coolly. His eyes darkened, and Harry shuddered at Snape’s deadly glare. He’d been on the receiving end of that glare more times than he could count, and he still hated it every single time.

Harry felt Vernon’s trembling increase as the full impact of Snape’s threatening figure finally registered with him. It only took another second for him to roughly shove Harry away and scuttle through the door, slamming it closed behind him. He had apparently forgotten that his wife was still in the room, for Petunia shrieked and ran for the door faster than Harry had ever seen her run in his life. It would have been quite entertaining if he weren’t so confused about Snape’s behavior. Petunia opened the door on her third shaky try and slammed it behind her even louder than Vernon had done.

Finally there was silence.

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he looked at Snape questioningly.

The man merely lowered his wand and studied Harry for a moment, seemingly making up his mind about something. When he spoke, it was to issue a simple, “Gather your things, Potter.”

“My…things.” Harry repeated, not sure if he’d really heard right.

“Yes, Potter! Your things!” Snape snapped at him. The man actually looked flustered. “Unless, of course, you would like to stay here for the rest of the summer.”

Harry stared uncertainly.

“Alright then, if you want to stay, be my guest. I’ll inform the headmaster that you are deliriously happy to spend the rest of the summer lazing about, contentedly starving in your lavish dungeon!” Snape raised the Portkey, which finally propelled Harry to action. He moved as fast as he could: the man looked uncertain enough about his decision to change it at any moment.

Darting over to his wardrobe, Harry quickly scooped up the few wearable items of clothes he possessed and dug out his birthday presents from the corner. One was already out. Sirius’ watch. Harry spun around on his knee to fix Snape with a glare.

The man was at the window, wand out, lips moving. Turning back around to Harry’s accusing glare and the watch in his hands, he merely shrugged. “If you do not want your possessions disturbed, I suggest you do a better job of putting them away.”

Harry snatched up the watch in exasperation and carried his pile to the padlocked trunk. And he sighed. Not because of the trunk, but because now he’d have to ask Snape for help.

But Snape saw the problem before Harry could speak and, with a muttered _alohomora_ , unlocked the trunk. Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to thank the man after his recent intrusion into his sentimental gift.

Those items and a couple things scattered around the room packed away, there was only one place left: his hiding place under the floorboards. Taking a measuring glance at an impatient Snape, he decided he really didn’t have a choice but to reveal his hiding place. The things there were too important to leave. It wasn’t likely Snape would ever be here again, anyway.

Mind made up, he got on his hands and knees and pulled up the loose floorboard. Gathering up the contents of his hiding place, he threw them into the trunk and replaced the board. A glance up showed Snape watching him with eyebrows raised. Not sure if that was good or bad, Harry hastily closed the trunk.

“I’m ready,” he announced, and jumped aside as Snape pulled out his wand and pointed it in Harry’s general direction. A shrinking spell later, Harry’s trunk was small enough to pick up and fit in his pocket.

Snape held out the Portkey. Harry reached for it before he could think too much about the fact that he was going off to who-knew-where with Severus Snape, of all people. Wait. He stopped mid-reach. Suspicion filled him.

“What were you doing at the window just now?” he had to ask. Snape had been casting a spell, that much was sure…but he had a Portkey already. Harry couldn’t think of any reason whatsoever that would call for Snape casting some random spell out his bedroom window.

Finding no reply forthcoming, and further alarmed at Snape’s satisfied air, he sprinted over to the window and looked out. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What did you do?” he demanded, turning around, intent on getting his answer.

Snape held out the Portkey again. Harry crossed his arms, needing to know what horror he might come back to next summer.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter,” Snape muttered. “Take the Portkey and I’ll tell you.” Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he grabbed the other end of the extended wand box.

“A simple weed growth enhancer spell, Potter. Perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

Harry didn’t have time to react to that, as Snape muttered the word, “enemy,” and he felt a familiar jerk behind his navel.

As one, the two wizards vanished from number four, Privet Drive.


	9. Layovers and Lies

Harry unceremoniously landed in a heap, face down on a mound of dirt and leaves. He raised his head to see Snape’s feet right next to him. _Of course he had made a perfect landing_ , Harry groused and hopped to his feet.

_Weed growth enhancer._ Harry grinned despite his annoyance as he brushed the dirt and leaves from his clothing. What he wouldn’t give to see the Dursleys’ faces when they couldn’t get rid of their weeds. Ha! If it had been anyone other than Snape who’d cast it, Harry might have allowed himself to be properly impressed. He was, admittedly, surprised.

He glanced up at the man, who hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d landed. Snape was looking at something beyond him, and only then did Harry hear the shuffling sounds of company. A throat cleared. He followed Snape’s gaze and came face to face with a wand. Wait, there were two wands.

Were they surrounded? His pulse quickened.

“Harry!”

Harry felt his heart rate slow as he recognized the body attached to the wand.

“Remus?”

A ragged-looking Remus Lupin blinked at him. He dropped his wand hand, surprise reflected in his warm brown eyes. Harry recognized the other wizard too. It was Mad Eye Moody. There were only the two wizards, and Harry felt profound relief that he was able to identify both.

“Harry?” Remus repeated. “We were told to expect Professor Snape alone.”

“It could be a trap!” Moody, who had yet to lower his wand, wasted no time in pointing out. “How do we know he isn’t a Death Eater impersonating Potter so we’ll reveal his location?”

“Lower your wand, Moody!” Snape snapped. “The Dark Lord already knows Potter’s summer location. We’ve been aware of that for months. Unless you are able to assist him in overcoming the wards, I highly doubt he or his followers would be so fortunate as to so much as obtain the necessary ingredient for an effective Polyjuice Potion!”

“Polyjuice! Ha! So you’ve revealed your ploy! Disguising one of your own to look like him so we’ll slip up and tell you how to cross the wards! Not likely!” Moody kept his wand pointed at Harry, though his eye swiveled to Snape. “Which means that you may or may not be Severus Snape,” he growled, eyeing the strange sight that the man made, still decked out in Dudley’s old clothes.

Remus intervened, asking Snape a question to placate Moody. “What curse did you use on Sirius fourth year just prior to the train leaving for Christmas holiday?”

Snape played along, though visibly exasperated, “Leg-Locker.”

“It’s him, Moody.”

Moody harrumphed, but he appeared to accept that Snape was indeed who he said he was. He narrowed his suspicion toward Harry.

“What form does your Patronus take, Harry?” Remus asked before Moody could start in on him again.

“Stag,” Harry answered automatically.

“Several people were listening last time you asked him that, Lupin! Ask him something else.” Moody’s eye spun around to scan the surrounding woods for anything suspicious.

Remus humored him. “What—” He stopped abruptly, eyes darkening. Harry looked around them, worried about what Remus had seen. Were there unusual creatures about? He absently reached for his wand, only to remember it was still in his shrunken trunk. He silently cursed himself for not pulling it out; he had stupidly grown used to not having it on him.

Remus stalked closer to Harry, but instead of pulling his wand on an unseen enemy, he gently placed his hand under Harry’s chin and turned his head to the side. “What happened to your face, Harry?” Remus asked softly.

Harry felt himself flush, and he pulled his chin away from Remus’ grasp. He hadn’t had time this morning to consider that he’d likely have a bruise on his face from yesterday. He hoped it didn’t look too bad, but judging by Remus’s narrowed eyes, it might look worse than he’d imagined.

“Er, nothing,” he mumbled. He couldn’t quite meet Remus’ probing gaze, but he forced himself not to duck his head like he was tempted to do. Unfortunately, in looking elsewhere, he had to dodge two other pairs of eyes as well, one accusing, the other knowing. “I—I fell. Door was right there. Clumsy.” The strung together words sounded incredibly false, even to his own ears. He must be out of practice. But then he couldn’t remember ever having outright lied to his friends or professors before about the Dursleys. Misled, yes. Omitted things, definitely. But lied? He hadn’t really had to. Vernon hadn’t left a bruise on him—well, on his face, at least—since he’d started at Hogwarts.

“The impostor is obviously covering something up!” Moody fixed Harry with the full force of his mismatched stare. “Who are you? Out with it. Who are you, really?”

“Now, Moody. Let’s be reasonable,” Remus chided, though suspicion was simmering in his eyes, which Harry now realized weren’t even focused on him anymore. They were directed over his shoulder. He followed Remus’ stare to Snape, who had left them to their exchange and was examining their surroundings.

When Remus redirected his attention to Harry, it was obvious the man didn’t believe the ‘clumsy’ story for a second. But thankfully, he dropped it. Looking at Harry, suspicion turned into an apologetic look as he asked the necessary question: “Harry, what do you hear when dementors come near?”

Harry was taken aback at the personal query, but he could see the reason for it. It wasn’t something Harry would have shared with many people, after all. He recovered quickly to answer, “my mum.”

He heard “It’s him, Moody,” from Remus simultaneously with an incredulous, “What!” Snape had turned from the edge of the clearing, face pale, and was looking at him like he’d gone mad. “Who in their right mind hears… _that_ when dementors are near?” 

Thankfully, Remus intervened before Snape could stick his large nose further into Harry’s business, putting up a hand to halt the conversation. “It’s him, Moody!” he repeated with an air of finality directed at Snape.

Moody finally dropped his wand, muttering something about tricks and villains and how one can never be too careful. Harry noted that he still kept one suspicious eye trained on Snape, though.

Snape ignored the glare and motioned around them. “Where is Dumbledore?” It was more a command than a question. “I have not been to this location. Has headquarters been compromised?”

Remus answered the question while moving to stand so close to Harry that it was kind of uncomfortable and Harry took a step back. “We’ve only recently started using this location as an emergency meeting place. Wards make it untraceable. The Order thought it necessary that we alternate the use of all safe houses so that if one is compromised, the likelihood of being captured is lessened.”

Harry could see how the clearing they were in could be an ideal place to meet. They were surrounded by trees on all sides, and a look above confirmed that the tall branches and leaves of the trees formed a curtain below the blue sky, a perfect barrier between them and any above ground surveillance. 

“We’ve wasted enough time,” Moody growled. “Lupin, you lead the way. I’ll take up the rear.”

Moody motioned for Remus to enter the forest first. Moody walked behind the other three, eye swiveling ever more rapidly for any hint of danger as they entered the dense woods.

Remus kept glancing back to keep an eye on Harry. He also kept a rather intently watchful eye on Snape, which the Potions master resolutely ignored.

When they reached a stream, Remus motioned them to a narrow place for crossing. He continued with his explanation then, as one by one they stepped across to the other side. “This place is especially set up with medical supplies.” He passed a glance over Snape’s healthy-looking form, marred only by scratches. “Few details were in your letter. As Albus was concerned you might have sustained serious injuries, he asked Poppy to meet us here to treat you. After she has seen to you, we’ll bring you both on to headquarters to see Albus.”

He glanced at Harry then, issuing him a reassuring smile before readdressing Snape with an uncharacteristic coolness to his tone, “I’m sure he’ll have quite a few questions for you.”

Snape scowled in return, and the wizards continued in silence.

That gave Harry time for thought as they continued down a little-used dirt path through the trees. Just what would Dumbledore say when he saw Harry? He wasn’t bound to be happy. Snape and Harry had both defied his wishes for Harry to stay put at the Dursleys. He also was a bit antsy about facing him so soon after his horrible tantrum at the end of the last school year. Would Dumbledore take one look at him and send him right back? He felt a sudden urge to plod a little slower. It really was quite scenic. Why hurry?

Snape bumped into him from behind. “Faster, Potter. The longer we are outside, the greater the probability that our location could be compromised.”

Harry reluctantly quickened his pace.

Stepping through another patch of dense trees, he finally saw a clearing ahead of them—a real clearing this time, though barely large enough for the small cottage in its midst. The cottage was built right next to a large stone wall, a natural cliff extending up into the air. The other three sides were dense woods. No one even a few steps into the trees on any side would guess that there was a clearing or a cottage only a stone’s throw away.

Both Snape and Harry were ushered into the cottage before he could examine any more of their surroundings.

It was dark inside. Not _too_ dark, he supposed, but he’d grown used to the brightness of the outdoors. He waited for his eyes to adjust.

“Mr. Potter!” He heard Madam Pomfrey’s surprised voice a moment before he saw her. She looked just as she did during the school year, brown hair laced with gray, her matronly form ready to pounce into action for anything from a bee sting to a war wound.

Peering beyond Pomfrey, Harry could see now that there was only one worn sofa in the tiny room. A few small appliances were off to the side, which Harry guessed served as a kitchen of sorts. As they looked old and dusty, Harry wondered if this place was ever used for more than a few minutes or hours at a time.

“Well, Potter?” The sound of his name interrupted his curiosity about the two closed doors leading off from the main room. He focused his attention on Madam Pomfrey, who was staring at him expectantly. Looking around at the other three faces, all directed at him, he wondered just how long he had been distracted by his examinations of the cottage.

“Huh?” he asked blankly.

“I asked if you would like to take a seat while I examine Professor Snape.” She put her hands on her hips then. “On second thought, perhaps I ought to check you over as well. Really, you seem quite disoriented.”

Harry was already shaking his head. “I’m fine, Madam Pomfrey. Thanks though,” he added. She was still looking him over like she wasn’t going to let it drop. He hastily took a seat on one end of the sofa. “Really. I’m tired, is all. A hike through the woods first thing in the morning can really take it out of you,” he tried to joke. It fell flat, but she seemed reassured and focused her attention on Professor Snape.

“Come now, professor. I’ve strict instructions from the headmaster to check you thoroughly before allowing you to leave.” Her firm voice brooked no argument, and despite his resentful posture, Snape followed her into the back room.

At Snape’s obvious aversion to being examined, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Dumbledore hadn’t brought Snape out to the middle of nowhere just so he couldn’t refuse medical attention. _Subtle manipulation_ , he thought. He wondered if maybe the sorting hat had ever told Dumbledore that he’d be good in Slytherin too.

“I’ll bring out some bruise salve for your face in one moment, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey called over her shoulder as she led Snape into the room. He heard her muffled voice giving some kind of instruction to the man through the cracked door.

Moody took up post by one of only two windows in the room, eyes out for any hint of danger. Leaving the guard duty to Moody, Remus took a seat on the sofa next to Harry. Harry braced himself for a steady stream of questions. Or, worse, for Remus to start a heart to heart—which Harry might not have minded, if he knew it was going to be about his parents or his friends, or even about his classes. Pretty much anything but the Dursleys.

“Harry…” Remus began but didn’t get a chance to voice his first question before Madam Pomfrey bustled back into the main room with a small jar in hand.

“Bruise salve,” she called out efficiently, handing it to him. “Rub a small amount on your cheek with three circular motions; that should do the trick.”

“Here, Harry, let me.” Remus reached over Harry for the jar, no doubt trying to be helpful. But as he closed his hand over the jar, Harry felt Remus’ arm bump into his shoulder, sending a short burst of pain through his arm. He hissed through his teeth and couldn’t help but scrunch up his nose.

He schooled his features, but he was a bit too late, for Remus was already staring at him with his look of suspicion back in place. “Harry?” Remus asked simply, expertly conveying his worry and unspoken questions in one word.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, his face warming under the scrutiny. “I…er, I guess I must’ve sprained my shoulder…” he explained feebly, avoiding Remus’ eyes. He looked at Madam Pomfrey. “I don’t suppose you could…um, fix it?”

“Harry!” A hint of frustration seeped into Remus’ usually calm demeanor. “I think you need to tell us who did this to you.”

“Why do you assume it was a ‘who’?” Harry retorted, fight flooding back to him at Remus’ stern tone. “I pulled my shoulder lifting something heavy, okay? I just didn’t want to carry on about it like a baby!” Well, it was sort of true, anyway. His shoulder probably wouldn’t be as bad if he hadn’t had to pull Snape up all those stairs when it was already sore to begin with.

Remus opened his mouth to reply, but Madam Pomfrey intervened. “That is quite enough, you two. Mr. Potter, allow me to take a look at that shoulder so that I may bring out the proper treatment.”

Harry didn’t move, not sure what was expected of him.

Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms across her chest. “Potter. Did you or didn’t you just ask me to ‘fix’ your shoulder? You do realize that I need to actually see it in order to help you?” She asked her question with eyebrows raised.

Harry’s face grew red again. “Erm…” he began, lacking any feeling of eloquence. “Don’t you need to see me in the back room or something? I mean, isn’t that where all your hospital stuff is set up at?”

Remus reached a hand out to place over Harry’s. “It’s alright, Harry. You’re in the company of friends. There is no shame or embarrassment in showing your injury.”

“Remus Lupin,” Pomfrey scolded, “this boy is obviously feeling bashful about parading around half-dressed in front of prying eyes. Come, Mr. Potter,” She gestured him up and to the back room. “Let’s have a look.”

He wasted no time following her to the open door, eager to get out from under Remus’ well-meaning intentions. He loved Remus, he did. Almost as much as he’d loved Sirius. He just…didn’t fancy giving him more to be concerned about. Harry hadn’t looked for himself, but he was pretty certain he’d have a few bruises on his arms. They were minor, but that wouldn’t matter to Remus, and Harry didn’t fancy his dad’s friend thinking that he couldn’t take care of himself with his own relatives.

There was simply no way he’d confess to Uncle Vernon’s recent treatment of him. He knew he could trust his father’s boyhood friend—the problem was that Remus cared about him. Unlike Snape, who, despite his recent confusing behavior, regarded Harry with predictable hatred and loathing, Remus might decide to coddle him or something. Harry hated being coddled. He hated being pitied even more.

Plus, it’s not like the Durseys were _abusive_. They were unpleasant, rude, uncaring, and generally horrid people, sure. But other than by Dudley, he wasn’t usually hit or anything. This summer was a fluke. It wasn’t really a lie to hide the source of his injuries from Remus, he decided. He was just omitting certain details to keep the truth from being blown out of proportion.

Pomfrey led him through the door to the one bedroom and closed the door behind them. There were two beds, one against each wall, with a chair in between. A floor to ceiling cabinet with clear doors lined the wall closest to the bedroom door, and Harry glanced at the shelves of potions, salves, and other healer supplies. Remus hadn’t been kidding. This place really was set up for medical pit stops.

“This way, Potter. Sit up on the bed, shirt off.” She bustled over to the cabinet. “Lie back down, Severus! I haven’t yet completed my diagnostic spells.”

Harry glanced across the room at its other occupant. Snape was sitting on one of the beds glaring at Harry, a full blown scowl on his face. He didn’t look happy at all to have Harry sitting in on his medical examination. Harry inched over to the opposite bed and sat on the very edge, as close to the door as possible.

Pomfrey stopped her assessment of the medical supplies long enough to snap again at them both. “Severus! The sooner you comply, the sooner we will be through here! And Mr. Potter. This is not a private room at St. Mungo’s. I may assist you with your shoulder in here or in the main room. Just please make up your mind!”

Make up his mind…

Display his injuries in front of Snape? Or Lupin and Moody?

Harry resigned himself to staying in the room with Snape. The professor already knew about how they’d been caused, anyway. And he wouldn’t make a fuss over him. In fact, the man looked as if he’d be pretty disgruntled even without Harry’s company. He had laid back down upon Pomfrey’s threat to make a full report of his behavior to Dumbledore.

Harry caught himself mid-snort at seeing Snape being treated like a child. He quickly followed it up with a pretend coughing fit after getting a nasty glare from the man in question.

Pomfrey ran her wand in the air over the entire length of Snape’s body, hmm-ing and tsk-ing all the while. Finished, she scribbled out a few notes on a piece of parchment and walked back over to the cabinet to pull out a few bottles of various sizes and colors.

“Mr. Potter!” She stood over him on her way back to Snape’s bed. “How many times must I repeat myself? Remove your shirt! I may be a witch, but I cannot see through cotton!” She huffed and turned back to Snape, proceeding to administer to him doses of some of the potions.

Heaving a sigh, he pulled his shirt over his head. It proved kind of difficult, actually. He was having a hard time raising his sore arm, and he felt downright silly moving his head and torso around at odd angles to remove it one-handedly. He finally tossed it next to him on the bed. At least he could be grateful that neither Pomfrey nor Snape had been watching his contortionist act.

The mediwitch kept giving Snape potion after potion to drink. Or maybe they weren’t all potions; he couldn’t tell. But sheesh. How many different types of medicine could one wizard need—especially as he hadn’t really been acting injured? It was kind of odd, actually, now that Harry thought about it. The man had been cursed and beaten and wounded when he’d landed with Harry, but except for that first day, he didn’t really seem to be that hurt. No one could recover that quickly on their own. Was Snape just so tough that pain didn’t bother him?

Or had he been feeling much, much worse than he let on that entire time? It would fit with Snape’s stubborn pride. Relying on Harry Potter for anything more than absolutely necessary probably would have killed the man more than mere physical injuries.

He mentally shrugged. Well, it was just as well with Harry if the man wanted to kill himself by acting fine when he wasn’t. No skin off his back.

Pomfrey finally replaced the cap on the last of the potion bottles. “Now stay put. You know very well the combination of these will need time to penetrate your entire system. Five to ten minutes should do it.” She turned around to Harry then. “Alright, Mr. Potter. Your tur—” she stopped mid-sentence with widening eyes. Recovering quickly, she placed one hand on each hip. “Mr. Potter!” she scolded, “What in Merlin’s name have you been doing to yourself? ‘Lifted something heavy,’ my foot!” She grabbed a few of the bottles from Snape’s bedside and replaced them in the cupboard, continuing her speech. “Honestly, boys these days! Sports this, sports that, and the Muggle-raised ones don’t even give a thought to the inaccessibility of proper magical healing remedies.”

Harry didn’t know what to make of her reaction until he looked down at his arms for himself. There were bruises on both, just as he’d thought there would be—bruises from where Uncle Vernon had grabbed him over the last few weeks, and a pretty nasty one on his elbow from when he’d fallen after Vernon had hit him. They weren’t all that bad, to tell the truth, hence Madame Pomfrey assuming it a result of nothing more than sports…but on the one spot where Uncle Vernon had grabbed him over and over—right near his sprained shoulder—was a series of small splotches, some a dark bluish-purple and some the reddish color of fresh bruises. They ran together so that it all looked like one huge, nasty multicolored bruise. It was hideous. No wonder his arm had been so tender every time something brushed against it.

When Pomfrey turned back around, it was to heave a thoroughly exasperated sigh. “Severus Snape! Don’t _make_ me report you to Albus! I said lie down and I _mean_ lie down! Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had more troublesome patients than the two of you.” She threw up her hands and returned to Harry’s side to perform several diagnostic spells.

Sure enough, Harry confirmed with a glance to the other bed, Snape was sitting up in his bed again. And he wasn’t lying down, even after her final scolding. He was just staring at Harry. More precisely, at his bruised arms. His thoughts were carefully hidden.

Harry attempted to slide over so that Pomfrey would hide him from Snape’s scrutiny, but when that earned him yet another scolding, he forced himself to remain still.

“Drink this, Mr. Potter.” Pomfrey handed him a small vial filled with a horrible-smelling greenish liquid. He downed it in one gulp in an effort to keep the horrible substance from touching his tongue.

Ugh! It was awful. He grimaced.

Snape was still watching him, and Harry shifted uncomfortably.

As Pomfrey reached for the jar of bruise salve, Harry’s nervous fingers found a corner of the discarded shirt and began to fiddle with it. He didn’t know what Snape was thinking, but this day was an awful mix of up and down emotions for Harry.

He should have known right away when he woke up crying and clinging to Snape that that this day wasn’t going on the top of his list of best birthdays ever. At least he was away from the Dursleys; that sure went a long way toward lending some happiness to the day. But everything else—the display his relatives had made in front of Snape, how obvious they had made it that they hated Harry, the embarrassment at having Remus notice and question his injuries—it all culminated in this never ending moment of having to just sit there under Snape’s endless scrutiny, with evidence of his relatives’ hatred of him on open display.

Even though Snape had seen and heard enough to know what—or specifically, who—had caused it, knowing the sight he must present with his limp arm and his bruises made him want to sink into the floor and stay there until Snape left.

And it wasn’t even noon yet. Harry heaved a sigh.

“Alright, move your arm now,” Pomfrey urged him. He lifted his injured arm slowly, carefully, and was pleasantly surprised to find it felt perfectly normal. Relieved at having the soreness of the last several days behind him, he raised it completely and then yelped at a sharp pain.

He raised his frustrated eyes to Pomfrey’s no-nonsense ones. She took his not quite healed injury in stride, holding out another vial of the green potion for his consumption. “One more dose and your shoulder should be fine.”

He swallowed, grimacing again at the awful taste.

“Yes, I know the taste isn’t the best. Next time you decide to partake in dangerous activities, you might stop to consider how you might be hurt, Mr. Potter.” She tsk-tsked.

“Erm…yeah. I mean yes, Madam Pomfrey. I’ll be more careful. I promise.” He managed to add a bit of contriteness to his tone and blinked his eyes a couple of times for good measure. He was relieved that Madam Pomfrey hadn’t put it all together.

Contrite blinking still in effect, he locked eyes with Snape. The man probably hadn’t even looked away from him, and he was giving him a knowing look.

“Just what Muggle sport did you happen to be playing when these heinous injuries occurred, Mr. Potter?” Snape obviously couldn’t resist calling him on his act.

Harry’s display of contriteness gave way to a glare.

Snape shrugged in an exaggeratedly innocent manner. “I do have many Muggle-born students in my classes. As a teacher, I feel obligated to prevent them from participating in such injurious sporting activities.”

“Why, Professor Snape, that is quite commendable of you!” Pomfrey beamed. “We really do need more of our professors to take an active interest in the health and safety of our students. Just think of all the injuries I tend to that could be prevented with a simple increase in education and awareness!” Her previous frustration at both of them gave way to satisfaction at the positive outcome. “No need to be shy, Mr. Potter. Please continue,” she urged as she began gently rubbing the bruise salve on the smallest, lightest bruises first.

Continue? Harry narrowed his eyes at Snape’s smug air. He hadn’t started anything to continue. Snape had!

He scanned his mind for Muggle sports, an area he didn’t have much familiarity with. He hadn’t had much to do with the Muggle world since he was eleven, after all, and Dudley’s sport of Harry Hunting didn’t exactly count. He ran through the list of activities that Dudley was taking this summer. Swimming, boxing…

“Boxing!” he blurted out.

That was a sport he knew a little something about from listening to Dudley. It had to do with punching and dodging…right? It could easily explain his injuries.

“Boxing,” Snape echoed dryly.

Harry lifted his chin, daring him to find fault with the plausibility of that lie. “Yeah, boxing.”

Pomfrey was nodding, though her lowered eyebrows betrayed her confusion. She obviously didn’t know what boxing was, but she’d accepted it, which was all that mattered to Harry.

“Perhaps you would care to explain this…boxing,” Snape continued, crossing his arms over his chest, “for educational purposes, of course.”

“Educational. Yeah, sure, of course,” Harry muttered. What was Snape playing at, anyway? Why was he toying with him? Was he planning to tell Madam Pomfrey the truth no matter what Harry said or did?

Worse than that, what if the man decided to spread Harry’s secrets all around school, like he had first feared? It’s not like Harry hadn’t ever been ostracized or made fun of…it’s just that he could deal with most of the other stuff people had held over him because it hadn’t been true. He didn’t fancy spending an entire year with people whispering and pointing at him like he couldn’t take care of himself under his own roof—with Muggles, no less.

The horrible thought occurred to him that Draco Malfoy would have a field day with this information.

He took a deep breath. “Boxing…well, it’s a sport with two people in a ring.”

“A ring?” Pomfrey interrupted, confusion in her face.

“Well…yeah, a ring. Not a little ring, like on a finger. It’s what they call a big area that’s roped off. And they fight until only one is left standing.”

“Fight!” Pomfrey stood, hands on hips, eyes blazing. “You got into a fight?!”

“No! It’s a sport, Madam Pomfrey. You throw punches and dodge them and…” He was at a loss. Pomfrey was growing even more irate and obviously didn’t see a difference between regular fighting and boxing. And Harry didn’t know enough about it to convince her otherwise. _He_ wasn’t even convinced otherwise. To Dudley, it was an excuse to beat up other kids and get congratulated for it.

He shrugged carefully, really not wanting to continue with the lie anymore but stuck with finishing it now. “Anyway, I guess I lost…” He trailed off.

Pomfrey huffed. “And one would hope that you learned your lesson, young man! Fighting, honestly. Don’t you be getting any ideas about starting off on the wrong foot this school year. I won’t put up with injuries caused by schoolyard fights!” She was furious, though her hands were gentle as she finished rubbing the bruise salve on one arm and went on to the other.

Harry fixed Snape with his most withering stare, which earned him a knowing glare in return.

Pomfrey finally finished up Harry’s arms, though the rubbing of the salve on the worst of the bruises had hurt. He’d closed his eyes against the pain, but it only lasted a moment, and then the bruises disappeared.

“You both lie down while I inform Lupin and Moody to prepare for departure,” she instructed as she replaced the cap on the bruise salve and replaced the medication in the cabinet. “When I return, I expect to see you both resting!” She gave a stern stare and left them alone.

Neither Snape nor Harry followed her orders, of course.

“What are you playing at?” Harry demanded as soon as he heard the click of the closing door. “You know what happened. You were there!”

“Of course I was there, Potter!” Snape retorted. “I am able to recall my own whereabouts and what I was so fortunate as to witness.”

Harry felt his neck getting hot at the blatant reminder.

Snape continued, sneering now. “Do you seriously intend not to inform anyone? Not the most intelligent of decisions, is it, to keep your uncle’s abuse secret only to return to it next summer?”

Harry cringed. Well, maybe it looked that way to people on the outside, and he had sure never liked the way his uncle treated him…but he wasn’t _abused_. He didn’t want anyone else to think of him that way, either…especially not his least favorite professor.

“It’s my business what I do or don’t do about it, isn’t it?” he grated out. “It’s my life. And you can pull that ‘I’m your professor’ crap with me all you want, but it won’t make one bit of difference—it’s summer. You’re off the hook! Besides, what do you know about it anyway?”

Snape looked ready to continue the argument indefinitely until that last comment; his face drained of color. Harry almost swore he saw a haunted look in Snape’s eyes, though it only lasted a second.

Snape suddenly apparently decided to heed Pomfrey’s advice. Lying back on his bed, he snapped at Harry, “Lie down, Potter, before you put us both in danger of an exhaustingly unnecessary and thoroughly annoying tongue lashing.”

“Fine!” Harry flopped down onto his back. “But just so we’re clear, stay out of my business from now on!”

“Gladly,” came the curt response. “However, one thing you might want to keep in mind as you lie your way through Britain, Potter. You’re terrible at it. You can’t even fool a fool like Lupin.”

And waiting there for Pomfrey to return, Harry felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Snape was right. How long could he go on misleading Remus before it caught up with him? And why did he feel compelled to, anyway? Harry’d never hesitated letting his friends know that there was no love lost between him and his relatives. It was pretty obvious anyway, with little more than a toothpick or an old sock from them for Christmas. 

But…there was a world of difference between grousing that his relatives hated him and admitting that he was weak enough to let them lay a hand on him. He couldn’t confide in anyone about _that_. Whether it was embarrassment or pride stopping him, his practical side also knew that it wouldn’t change anything that had already happened.

It didn’t matter, he finally decided. Only one month and he’d be back at school with his friends and the familiarity of classes.

And nothing that happened this summer would matter at all.


	10. Hostility, House-elves, and Headmasters

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place was connected to the floo network. Harry should know; he’d spoken to Sirius through it. There weren’t anti-Apparition wards on the old house, if George’s and Fred’s abilities to pop in and out of rooms were any indication. Finally, if a Portkey failed, there was always the Knight Bus to drop one off if they had been told the location by Dumbledore. Surprisingly accessible, Harry thought, for being so untraceable.

So…if it was so accessible, then why were they _walking_?

Harry plodded another foot in front of the other, his dark mood growing steadily worse. He wouldn’t even have minded being surrounded by the four adults—Remus and Pomfrey in front, Snape and Moody taking up the rear—if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d really like to avoid every single one of them. He was getting sick and tired of the worrying looks Remus was shooting over his shoulder every so often. Moody was just as antsy, though not about Harry. About every ten minutes, he would make them all stop to do a thorough sweep of the area. No one seemed too happy about that, come to think of it; they all looked pretty tired of walking by now.

Especially Snape. He hadn’t said a word—to anybody—since they’d emerged from the room to continue on to headquarters. His hair slid forward to hide the sides of his face from view, but a glance back from Harry had revealed just enough of his face to convince Harry to walk a little faster. Bad mood was a definite understatement to describe the dangerous look in Snape’s eyes.

And then there was Pomfrey. To tell the truth, she hadn’t really done anything outright irritating since they’d left the cottage. She was visibly tired, like the others, but unlike the others, she seemed content to take in the healthy hike without complaint or sulking. Not to mention, without her usual scolding manner. Harry decided to be annoyed at her anyway. That she would enjoy the walk when Harry was so miserable was more than just cause for annoyance in his moody mind.

“Stop here,” Remus finally called out, his hand held up to halt their steps.

Harry glanced up hopefully. Moody had stopped them all the other times. Maybe now they could use a Portkey or something.

“Harry.” Remus motioned Harry over to him, then placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders as soon as he was close. With a brief glance at the others, he moved so that his body blocked Harry from their view, then lowered his face to look him in the eyes. “I am sending you ahead now,” he began, gaze intent, “to headquarters. I must help Moody see Madam Pomfrey to safety, and then Professor Snape and I will join you. Tell the Headmaster that—”

“We can’t send the boy alone, Lupin!” Moody’s voice interrupted over Remus’ shoulder, and Harry jumped a bit at his sudden close proximity. “Headquarters may have been compromised!”

“Since dawn?” Remus questioned lightly, eyebrows raised. “We now know why Voldemort’s attacks have been sporadic of late, Moody. His concentration is on other matters. Even if his focus were on us and not on Harry, I doubt he could have waged and won an attack on our untraceable and highly protected headquarters within the span of a few hours. Certainly not with Albus there.”

“We’re at war, Lupin. You assume too much,” Moody growled.

Madam Pomfrey piped up, “I’ve seen to Professor Snape’s injuries. Let him go with Potter while we—”

“No,” Remus answered quickly and emphatically, his fingers tightening slightly on Harry’s shoulders. He fixed an apologetic look on Madame Pomfrey. “My apologies for interrupting, Poppy. You see, the plan was for me to take Severus to headquarters only after seeing you and Moody safely to your floo departure point. Obviously, the plan didn’t include traipsing through a populated area with an easily recognizable Harry Potter in tow.” Here he shot another apologetic look, this time at Harry, before continuing, “Harry needs to leave us before we continue further. And while it may be dangerous for him to leave alone, for anyone to leave with him would be even more dangerous. Even a single magical transport outside the town could lead Death Eaters instantly here to investigate if they have discovered Harry missing from Privet Drive. Two or more and we may as well send up a beacon announcing our location.”

The others considered Remus’ words, and even Moody looked pretty well convinced, albeit reluctantly.

As for Harry, thoughts were now whirling through his head, and he couldn’t hold back the questions any longer.

“Is _that_ why we couldn’t leave straight away from the cottage?” He directed his question toward Remus. “Because Voldemort might detect the magic and come find us?”

Remus looked reluctant to go into it, but he issued a brief nod.

“But Madam Pomfrey did magic there and no one came! Why would—”

“Really, Potter!” Snape’s dark scowl said plainly that he’d grown tired of silently watching the others waste precious time with talk. “If you want to learn magical theory, you might try paying attention in class once in a while! This is not the place or time for your inane questions.”

Lupin wasted no time in jumping to Harry’s defense, a slight coolness to his tone. “Let the boy alone, Severus. He’s done nothing to you.” He pulled Harry to his side—rather too close, in Harry’s annoyed opinion, and he tried to inch away from whatever battle was brewing between the two men.

“Let him alone?” Snape questioned, his lips drawn into a smirk, contrasting with his narrowed eyes. Unless Harry was mistaken, the man was amused. “Why, Lupin. You sound almost…noble,” he sneered.

“What would you know of nobility?” Remus calmly replied, though his hand tightened on Harry’s arm. Harry squirmed a bit, tugging to be let go, but Remus’ attention was still on Snape.

“It is highly overrated, for one,” was Snape’s scowled response. “Those who claim it are usually the least noble of us all.”

“So you’re a philosopher, now, Severus?”

Snape issued a mocking laugh in response. “Merely an observer, _Remus_. After all, it is your noble self who is manhandling the boy as we speak.”

Snape forgotten, Lupin brought his eyes round to Harry, still squirming to be let go, and all at once loosened his grip. “Harry, I’m sorry,” he rushed to say as Harry stepped away from him. “I…I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His eyes searched out Harry’s.

Harry rubbed his arm and opened his mouth to give Remus an earful, when he saw Remus’ face. The man looked genuinely distressed. Instead of his planned tongue lashing, Harry heard himself saying, “’Course not, Remus.” After all, Harry conceded, of all people, he knew the difference between acts of love and acts of hate. Only, for some reason, Remus was going overboard with the whole protectiveness thing today.

Remus looked uncertain still, so Harry stepped closer to him to show he didn’t harbor ill will. That seemed to work, for Remus issued him a small apologetic smile.

“For Merlin’s sake! Will you boys _please_ stop being boys for two minutes at a time!” Madam Pomfrey was apparently through with being patient and content. She raised her voice, walking around and scolding each of the men in turn. “Need I remind you that while I may have seen to their immediate injuries, Mr. Potter and Professor Snape are both in need of rest, not to mention a proper meal? They will not be getting any of that out here in the forest!”

She crossed over to Harry then, shooing him down the path. He hurriedly complied, somehow more worried more about the consequences of disobeying her than he usually was with Snape. Which was saying a lot.

“Hold up, Harry!” Lupin called from behind him only a minute later, somewhat breathless from trying to catch up to them. “You can leave from where you are.”

Moody followed, issuing his now familiar dark mutterings about danger and folly and sticking to formation.

“Here, Harry,” Lupin handed him a small cup from the pocket of his robes, which Harry accepted. “This Portkey will take you to headquarters upon activation. The headmaster should be there awaiting my arrival with Professor Snape. Tell him that we’ll be taking an alternate route shortly.”

Harry stared at the simple clay cup in his hands. “Wait…you had this the whole time? If you’re letting me use this now, why couldn’t I use this earlier? Why—”

“Potter!” Snape bit out, fully ready to deride him once more.

But Snape’s almost-rant was cut short by Remus loudly continuing his explanation, “Feel free to talk to the headmaster about any recent or troubling events that might be on your mind.” Remus spared a swift, pointed glance at Snape, which was ignored.

Snape did suddenly look as though he’d remembered something, however, as he reached into Dudley’s trouser pocket for his rolled up tube of parchment. He studied Harry for a moment before walking over to him and holding it out.

Harry hesitated.

“Take it, Potter,” Snape snapped. “It’s for the headmaster. Give it to him to review before we arrive.”

Harry took it, careful not to touch Snape’s hand. He’d already had more than enough physical contact with the man for one day.

“Alright then, Harry,” Remus nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. “Read the inscription inside the cup backwards.”

Harry nodded, eager to escape the many layers of hostility running through this group—even if it did mean explaining his sudden appearance to Dumbledore.

He read the simple inscription. Straw? Harry sounded it out backwards, “W…a…r…t…s. Warts!” He exclaimed, and Remus’ smile was the last image Harry saw before he was pulled away and tumbled head over feet into a dimly lit room he recognized as the drawing room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

He stumbled to his knees to take it in, when all at once he was knocked back down by a small colorful projectile launched right into his stomach.

“Oof! Gerrof me!” He was flat on his back, his voice muffled by something bright and fuzzy covering his face.

The small projectile started to talk in a high, squeaky voice, “Harry Potter! It is Harry Potter, come to see Dobby! Dobby is so happy to see you, Harry Potter, sir!”

“Dobby?” Harry was finally able to raise an arm, plucking a pink and yellow knitted hat from his face. He blew a few pieces of fuzz from between his lips. “What are you doing here?”

Dobby bounced aside to let Harry get to his feet, his own small stocking-covered feet hopping with excitement. “Professor Dumbledore asked Dobby to stay here for the summer, sir, he knows he can trust Dobby. I is loyal to Harry Potter and will help his friends, sir.”

“But…what about Kreacher?” Harry asked darkly, his hostility toward Sirius’ treacherous old house-elf flooding back to him.

Dobby’s ears fell, his tennis ball-sized eyes open wide. “Dobby is hearing Kreacher betrayed Harry Potter’s friends. Kreacher is being a bad house-elf. Professor Dumbledore sent him away, Dobby knows not where.”

“Oh.” Harry felt relief at not having to see Kreacher, even if he had been denied the opportunity to take out his rage properly.

“Professor Dumbledore told Dobby to wait here for Professor Snape. Dobby was not being excited to see Professor Snape, sir.” The little house-elf’s ears dropped even lower before they raised and his face brightened as he exclaimed, “But Harry Potter came instead! And Dobby is very happy now!”

Harry grinned. “Thanks, Dobby.”

“Yes,” came a voice from the doorway, “thank you, Dobby, for seeing to our surprise visitor.”

Harry slowly raised his eyes to take in Albus Dumbledore, worried about what reception he would find. The aged wizard’s neutral face didn’t show anger…but his eyes weren’t exactly twinkling, either. “Dobby, would you be so kind as to prepare a room for Harry? It appears as though he may be staying the night.”

Dobby let out a squeak at that. “Dobby is happy to be helping Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is hoping Harry Potter stays many, many nights, sir!” And with a crack, he disappeared from the room.

Harry lowered his eyes to the carpet as the full weight of Dumbledore’s gaze rested on him.

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, “Under usual circumstances, I would remark how pleasant it is to see you.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Erm…you too, sir. I mean, it’s nice to see you too,” he lied, still studying the carpet. He heard shuffling as Dumbledore moved across the room.

“Sit, my boy. Something tells me that I am in for an interesting story. We may as well be comfortable, don’t you think?” Dumbledore took a seat on a small sofa and summoned two glasses of pumpkin juice and a dish of some kind of candy. He gestured for Harry to sit opposite him, on the other side of a small table.

Harry sat in the proffered chair, taking in the changes in the room since he’d last been here. It was thoroughly clean, thanks to Mrs. Weasleys efforts, and much of the grimy furniture was replaced with newer and brighter things. It helped to add just a little bit of cheer to the dreary old place. Not that Harry felt cheerful right then. Memories of his outburst the last time he had seen Dumbledore, not to mention his attempts to destroy quite a few of the man’s possessions, drifted through his head. He shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Dumbledore to speak.

“I trust you are doing well, Harry?” Dumbledore began, pushing the dish of candy toward him.

“Yes, sir. Thanks.” Harry reached for a piece of candy to give his nervous hands something to do. Focusing his attention on unwrapping the candy kept his eyes from Dumbledore’s for a few moments longer.

“Excellent. Glad to hear,” was Dumbledore’s pleasant reply. “As you don’t seem very inclined toward pleasantries at the moment, perhaps we should simply get to the point.” He paused, waiting until Harry looked up to meet his eyes, then continued, “Why are you not with your relatives, Harry?”

Harry took a sip of pumpkin juice to wet his mouth. “I…um,” Harry wasn’t sure where to start. And then it occurred to him that Dumbledore might already know some of it. “What did Snape tell you in his letter?”

“ _Professor_ Snape explained that his position had been compromised and that he was stranded at your home. He asked for safe passage to headquarters as soon as possible.” Dumbledore helped himself to a piece of candy. Unhurriedly removing the wrapping, he continued, “Professor Snape knows the importance of brevity in letters such as the one he sent. He mentioned nothing of you or how the two of you were getting along—which, I admit,” said Dumbledore with a raised brow, “gave me some degree of concern. Due to your…shared history, and knowing that the two of you were stranded together in an enclosed space, I thought it best not to tarry. And so I sent your owl—Hedwig, I believe?—immediately back to Professor Snape with a Portkey to safety.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry nodded, flushing at Dumbledore’s justifiable lack of confidence that he and Snape could get along without doing serious damage to each other.

“Professor Snape certainly neglected to notify me that you would be accompanying him in leaving your aunt and uncle’s house,” Dumbledore hinted for an explanation and leaned back in his chair.

“I…don’t think he really planned it, sir,” Harry explained quickly. “It just kind of happened.”

Dumbledore waited a moment before prodding, “And how exactly did your leaving the safety and care of your relatives’ home ‘just kind of happen,’ Harry?” The words could have been scolding as all get out, but he said it gently, as a matter of fact question.

Harry shifted his weight in the chair. “Professor Snape was about to leave, and…um, he told me if I packed up my things, I could come with.”

Dumbledore’s brows shot up nearly to the middle of his forehead, and Harry didn’t think he had ever seen the wizard looking quite so surprised. “Pardon my confusion, Harry, but allow me to reiterate your statement. _Professor Snape_ invited you to leave your aunt and uncle’s home—against my instructions, I might add— to essentially spend more time in his company.” He paused here for Harry’s confirming nod. “And he did this on a whim?”

“Er, yeah. I guess so.” Harry felt his face grow hot at Dumbledore’s blatant disbelief. Harry hadn’t given it much thought over the last few hours, but now that he mulled it over in his head, he found he really didn’t understand it himself. Just why had Snape decided to take him away from the Dursleys? The obvious answer was that he saw how Harry’s aunt and uncle treated him. But Harry wasn’t naive enough to think that in itself would cause Snape to overcome years of hatred to suddenly turn rescue mode on him. The Snape he knew would be happy to see Harry treated that way. Hell, he’d treated Harry worse on more occasions than Harry could count.

So…why had Severus Snape, who was an even bigger bully than Vernon Dursley, helped him to leave the Dursleys? It just didn’t make sense.

“Well then, Harry. I do see I am not the only one with a few questions over the day’s events,” Dumbledore remarked after studying Harry’s confused expression.

Harry sighed and felt a pang of jealousy at how easy it was for wizards like Snape and Dumbledore to hide their thoughts when it suited them. He had never been able to hide what he was thinking very well.

He took a deep breath, just then feeling how incredibly tired he was from the morning’s events. The idea of a nap sounded unbelievably good right at that moment. Pulling Snape’s tube of parchment from the waistband of his jeans, where he had put it for safekeeping, he held it out to Dumbledore. “This is from Professor Snape, sir. He didn’t say what it was, only that it was for you to review before he and Remus get here.” Harry hoped it would be enough to distract Dumbledore from more questions.

“Thank you, Harry.” Dumbledore took the parchment, and showing how astute he could be, promptly sent for Dobby to show a grateful Harry to his room so that he could rest.

The first thing Harry did after trudging up the stairs and into the room was to lie face down on the bed. He didn’t even bother to take off his shoes, he was so tired. Before he knew it, he was sound asleep.

* * *

The sound of muffled voices drifted upstairs, waking Harry slowly from his deep, dreamless sleep. He rolled over, promptly waking as something sharp jabbed him in the nose. Blinking, he felt around, hand coming into contact with his glasses. He must have fallen asleep with them on, he realized, righting them on his face.

He still heard voices, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Jumping up and out into the hallway, he leaned over the banister to see Remus and Dumbledore clearly in the downstairs hallway. He ducked close to the ground so they wouldn’t look up and see him.

Harry couldn’t make out what the two wizards were saying—they were talking in hushed tones—but Remus was talking intently to the older wizard, gesturing as if he was insistent about something. Dumbledore was listening, responding in equally hushed but soothing tones.

Remus then gestured to a few pieces of paper which Dumbledore held in his hands. Harry squinted, trying to figure out what they were, and he thought he saw what looked to be Pomfrey’s scrawl. He remembered, then, her note-taking after her examinations of both Snape and himself. A chill ran up his spine. Had she written all of his injuries out for Dumbledore’s perusal? Harry was able to fool Pomfrey through sheer luck that she hadn’t put two and two together. He was certain he wouldn’t be able to keep the source of his injuries secret from Dumbledore’s shrewd observations.

A door creaked open, and Remus stopped talking a moment before Dobby appeared from the direction of the kitchen with Snape in tow. The Potions master looked more himself, having changed out of Dudley’s clothes and into his usual dark garb.

Dumbledore finally spoke loudly enough so that Harry could hear, “Ah, Severus. I trust Dobby has seen to your appetite? Very good, very good. If you are feeling up to it, might I have a word with you?”

Snape nodded slightly to show his agreement before allowing himself to be led past Remus and into the drawing room. Dumbledore’s voice trailed off as they walked further into the room, “I have read your account of Lord Voldemort’s meeting, my boy. Thank you for writing it out for me. As I am sure you expect, I do have a few additional questions...

“Oh, and Remus,” Dumbledore called back, “I think that Harry was exhausted enough to sleep for quite a while longer. I would appreciate if you didn’t disturb his rest quite yet. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting for us in the kitchen?”

Remus nodded, stiffly turning back toward the room Snape had just vacated. Harry heard one door close, then another, before silence fell in the hallway.

He waited a fraction of a moment before he carefully tiptoed down the stairs, one eye focused in the direction of the kitchen, and approached the door to the drawing room. Placing an ear to the door, he heard muffled voices; but as before with Dumbledore and Remus, he couldn’t make out actual words.

He backed up, sighing with impatience. He wanted desperately to know what was being discussed in there. Were they talking about the Death Eater meeting? About Voldemort’s plan? About the Order of the Phoenix and their plans?

Or were they talking about Harry? About Pomfrey’s examination?

Harry couldn’t stand not knowing, and he just about screamed in frustration at being left in the dark. He nearly forgot to keep quiet on his way back to his room, but the thought of being confronted by a newly protective Remus kept him from stomping up the stairs like he wanted to do.

Opening his door a moment later, he just about shouted out in surprise at a huge pair of eyes blinking at him from on top of his own bed.

“Dobby!” Harry whispered, shutting his door quietly. “What are you doing in here? I thought you went to the kitchen with Professor Lupin.”

Dobby jumped to the floor, several hats bouncing up to land perfectly back into place on top of his head. “Professor Lupin asked Dobby to check on Harry Potter. Dobby was not wanting to tell Professor Lupin that Harry Potter was not where he was supposed to be, sir.” Indeed, Dobby’s huge eyes looked relieved that his favorite boy wizard was safe and well.

“Oh.” Considering everything that had happened today, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Remus would send Dobby to check in on him. Still… “Dobby, I don’t suppose you could tell him I’m still asleep, could you? I don’t really want to talk to anyone right now.”

Dobby nodded vigorously before Harry had even finished. “Harry Potter can trust Dobby to keep his secrets!”

Harry grinned. When Dobby wasn’t trying to save his life, he could actually do a decent job of lightening Harry’s mood. Thinking over his history with the house-elf, he couldn’t help chuckling at some of the memories of magical mayhem the house-elf had caused. Which reminded him…

“Oh, hey, Dobby?” Harry called out as it looked like the house-elf was about to disappear. He reached for the shrunken trunk he still held in his pocket. “Would you mind unshrinking my school trunk for me before you go? I’m still underage…can’t use magic during the holidays, you know.”

Dobby proudly complied, happily unshrinking the trunk for Harry before he popped back to inform Remus of Harry’s restful and uninterrupted sleep.

Even as Harry lay back onto his bed to stare at the ceiling, all kinds of thoughts ran through his head about what was being discussed downstairs between Dumbledore and Snape. He felt like sulking, but what was the fun in that with no one around to see him sulking? If only he had a way to listen to…

Harry abruptly sat up in bed. If only he had a way to…see and hear through walls? Scrambling over to his school trunk, he shoved through its messy contents to find what he was looking for.

After only a few seconds of digging, he withdrew what was even more exciting to him now than when he had opened it last night: his very own Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ Wall Watcher.

As he tiptoed down the stairs with one solitary purpose in mind, Harry Potter grinned from ear to eavesdropping ear.


	11. Behind Closed Doors

When Harry reached the hallway outside the drawing room, he found it still gloriously devoid of people. _I should have asked Dobby to keep Remus occupied, just to be sure_ , he scolded himself. Too bad he hadn’t remembered the Wall Watcher in time.

Sitting himself on the lowest step—still close enough to see and hear properly—he closed his eyes, removed his own glasses, and put the magical glasses in place. He opened his eyes slowly, remembering the shock he’d received the first time he tried them and had seen nothing underneath him. Sure enough, every which way he looked, he could see through the walls.

However, only one room interested Harry at that moment. In directing his attention to the other side of the wall to the drawing room, his eyes and ears focused on the two wizards who were already well into their conversation.

“No!” Snape looked as if he had been pacing the room and had stopped mid-stride to address the Headmaster, who was seated on the same sofa on which he had briefly questioned Harry earlier that day. “I have done too much to stop now. I need to be out there, doing something!”

“Now, Severus,” Dumbledore soothed, “I am not asking you to cease your efforts for this war. You can do plenty of good from here, after you have had time to recover—”

“Recover! I am perfectly fine, Albus!”

“Fine,” Dumbledore repeated dryly. “Yes, Poppy must have been exaggerating when she wrote in her medical report that you had sustained multiple surface injuries, dehydration, and _substantial nerve damage_.” He deliberately softened his voice to add, “Severus. I know how you pride yourself on not allowing your weaknesses to show, whether they be physical, mental, or emotional. But you do not need to hide them from me. You are weak right now. Not broken. Weak. There is no shame in that. You must have time to recover.”

Snape scowled, clearly not agreeing with the headmaster’s assessment of his condition.

“And as it concerns the war,” Dumbledore continued, “at the present time, the most important thing for you to do is to lie low. Allow Voldemort time to be distracted from thoughts of searching for you. You will be of better use in the thick of the war when his guard is down.”

Harry noticed that Snape had flinched at Dumbledore’s use of Voldemort’s name, but he hadn’t corrected him like he always did with Harry.

“I fail to see of what importance I will be to the Order sitting here doing nothing,” Snape combated, “And before you suggest that I have anything to do with the training or babysitting of Potter, I should not need to remind you of the last time you forced me to work with him. I will not have my privacy trampled on again, and I will not waste my efforts with an arrogant teenager who refuses to listen to me or to learn!”

Harry bristled, wanting to tell Snape a thing or two about the man’s own behavior. It was hardly mature to intentionally drop a student’s potions assignment and refuse to grade it, now was it?

Dumbledore replied in his calmest tone, “I have admitted to you that those lessons were a mistake on my part. I am deeply sorry. I had hoped the two of you would learn to put your differences aside. Forcing you to work together, however…just magnified the problem, I am afraid.”

Dumbledore’s eyes showed defeat, along with something deeper…sorrow? Weakness? Maybe both…or neither. Harry didn’t have time to dwell on it, as Dumbledore was speaking again. “If you should choose to tutor Harry again, you know how grateful I would be to you. However,” he held up his hand to stay Snape from interrupting, “that would be entirely your choice. You have my word, Severus, that I will not force the two of you together in that capacity again.”

Harry found himself grinning a bit at that promise. Within the room, Snape looked calmer as well, though still wary.

But Harry’s relief was short-lived, as Dumbledore continued, “Nevertheless, you have no need for immediate concern, Severus. I placed Harry with his relatives for his own safety. Watched by a Death Eater or no, it is still the most securely warded place for him. He returns tomorrow.”

Harry grasped the edge of the step with both hands. Back? After everything he’d been through, Dumbledore was sending him back to the Dursleys? Images of tree-sized weeds and a permanently purple Uncle Vernon flew through his mind, and his hands tightened painfully on the step.

Snape took a seat across from Dumbledore, his expression inscrutable. “We had considered sending Potter to Hogwarts in approximately three weeks’ time,” he said slowly. “I see no reason why we shouldn’t send him on now. We would have no trouble finding a slew of eager volunteers to guard him for the duration.” Snape apparently couldn’t resist a slight sneer at the jab at Harry’s popularity.

The headmaster’s brows rose a notch. “You are taking an interest in the boy’s welfare, Severus?”

“Of course not,” Snape snapped. “He is pivotal to the Dark Lord’s plans; I merely think it the wisest course of action to keep him away from a location where he is already known to be.”

Dumbledore countered, “Our plan might have worked, if not for your escape and Voldemort’s knowledge that you would inform us of his plans. Not only can a near-empty Hogwarts not offer him the same protections as his relatives’ home, but it is the first place at which Voldemort will now expect us to hide him.”

“The Weasleys, then,” Snape said, before Dumbledore had quite finished his last sentence. “Send Potter to stay with his mangy friend and that horrendous family of his. It is already warded to a degree, and additional wards could be put into place.”

Harry’s grip on the step let up a bit. The Weasleys? He barely dared to hope…

“No,” Dumbledore countered again, promptly destroying that hope. “Still too risky, for reasons we have discussed before. You know better, Severus,” Dumbledore scolded, leaning forward to study Snape’s guarded face. “You are one of the most logical wizards of my acquaintance, and you know these arguments inside and out. What else is behind this sudden urge to relocate Harry?”

Dumbledore’s voice demanded an answer, and Snape met the older wizard’s eyes unflinchingly, though he said nothing for a long moment. When he finally did speak, it was with a simple, “Nothing at all, Albus. I merely thought it important that we understood all options.”

The silence was thick as both wizards held their gazes. Dumbledore clearly didn’t believe the other man for a moment, but then Snape didn’t appear as if he had been trying to fool him. It seemed to be his way of saying that he was done with the topic of conversation.

Harry’s whole body felt tense, knowing that with the end of that discussion, Dumbledore had won. Harry would be going back to the Dursleys, whether he liked it or not.

The headmaster allowed the change in discussion, finally interrupting the silence to segue into another topic. “As we are on the subject of Mr. Potter,” he began, still watching Snape carefully, “I had hoped to speak with you about a few details of your stay with him.”

Snape slowly and deliberately placed his hands on the table before him, lacing his fingers together in a falsely relaxed position. He waited, wary eyes on Dumbledore.

“I have read Poppy’s letter regarding her examination of Harry, Severus. I have also spoken with Remus. He was quite concerned by her findings. In addition to undernourishment and a rather large bruise on his face, he seems to have had a severely sprained shoulder and an array of bruises on both arms.” Dumbledore allowed a moment before continuing carefully with his next comment, “Remus was…rather worried that he might have received the injuries as a result of your…shared company over the last several days.”

Harry had worried that Dumbledore had the information from Pomfrey, but he now nearly clapped himself on the forehead for a different reason. So that’s why Remus had been acting so protective. Looking back, he figured he should have guessed… _would_ have guessed, if he hadn’t been so distracted. All the swift glares and suspicious looks…and all directed at Snape.

Snape’s eyes had narrowed to slits. “And what do you think, Albus?” he grated out, fury simmering in his voice.

Dumbledore studied Snape for a moment. “I think that you dislike the boy, Severus. Or at least that you think you do. You have never hidden that fact. I will also not deny that I know you well enough to discern that if properly provoked, you have the capability to do harm…to yourself and to others.” Dumbledore spoke carefully, considering, eyes looking directly into Snape’s. “You have a temper, Severus. I will not pretend that you don’t, and you will not deny that you do.”

Snape looked ready to explode with that same referenced temper.

“However,” Dumbledore continued calmly, “I have put my trust in you and I believe that you will be honest with me in a matter so grave as this. If you tell me that he is incorrect, I will believe you. If you tell me that he is correct, then we shall deal with it. Together. I will not forsake you.”

Snape kept his thunderous eyes level with those of the older wizard and stated clearly and deliberately, “He is incorrect.”

Dumbledore did not hesitate: he nodded and placed one of his hands over both of Snape’s, which were still clasped together on the table. “Thank you, my boy. I believe you.” He left his hand on Snape’s for a moment longer. “Thank you,” he repeated, and Harry heard the relief behind the headmaster’s words.

Snape stared at Dumbledore’s hand holding his own, so that Harry couldn’t see his face, and he continued to study his own hands after the older wizard’s hand was removed.

“Now that we have that settled,” Dumbledore cleared his throat, “Poppy noted that the bruises were not all inflicted at once. Several, however, looked at most a day or two old. Are you able to shed any light on the cause or causes of his injuries, Severus? Other than, ah…falling, lifting, or boxing, that is?” he raised his brows in obvious disbelief of those excuses, and Harry blushed. To hear his feeble excuses laid out by Dumbledore…well, it was more than a little humiliating.

“Did you see or hear anything that might explain?” Dumbledore prodded Snape, whose silent focus was still on his own clasped hands.

Harry held his breath. Snape hadn’t told before when he’d had the chance. Surely he wouldn’t now…

Snape finally raised his head to look Dumbledore in the eyes and said two words: “His uncle.”

Harry felt chilled as Snape went on. “I discovered Potter’s shoulder injury the first night. He never explained how it was injured, but in light of…other events, it was obviously his uncle’s doing.” He stopped to allow Dumbledore to speak, but the older wizard was still, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

Harry could do nothing but listen to Snape delve into the secrets of his home life. “The following day I heard a session of verbal abuse which I can now only presume is a commonplace occurrence in that house. His uncle proceeded to hit him.”

Snape paused a moment before adding, in a careful voice, “The Muggle hit his own nephew hard enough to knock him to the ground.” Snape stopped then, silently waiting for Dumbledore’s response.

“And that was the only time you saw or heard…anything,” Dumbledore said quietly, sadness lining his features.

Snape hesitated before admitting, “No.” His rigid posture clearly communicated that he did not want to continue, but after a glance at the headmaster’s imploring face, he did. “I am under the distinct impression that in addition to the aforementioned abuse, his relatives work him, starve him, lock him behind bars, and who knows what else. They do not appear opposed to using any or all of these punishments particularly in response to the slightest mention of the magical world.”

Dumbledore let out a deep breath. “I am sorry that you had to be there, child. It can’t have brought up happy memories for you.”

Snape brushed the comment aside, almost too quickly. “Did you know?” he asked, leaning forward a bit, eyes intense. “Did you know that your golden boy lived in an abusive home?” he demanded.

Harry, still feeling shaky, flinched at hearing the term “abuse” yet again from Snape’s lips. He hated it and hoped Dumbledore wasn’t going to start to see him that way. Abused implied weak, thought Harry. And he wasn’t weak.

Dumbledore sighed and slumped slightly into his seat. “Harry has never known love as he should have with the Dursleys. I did what I thought I had to in sending him back there, in keeping him safe from greater evils. Despite his relatives’ neglect, I had never seen proof of physical violence. I had truly convinced myself that Harry would be fine during the summers. Not ecstatically happy, of course, but fine. They are his family, after all.”

“Yes, because we all know that families never hurt their own,” Snape sneered, dark sarcasm lacing his words.

“Yes,” Dumbledore eyed Snape with sorrow-filled eyes, “Yes, you would know that, wouldn’t you, Severus?”

“This isn’t about me,” Snape replied quickly in rejection of the direction the conversation was taking.

“To the contrary, this _is_ about you. After all, you are the one who chose to take Harry from his relatives’ harm.”

“I was the one who happened to be there. Do not make me into Potter’s shining hero, Albus. I care nothing for the boy. That has not changed.”

“And yet you helped him.”

Snape’s glare was nearly worse than his sneer. “You never desist in your foolish quest to find the so-called ‘good’ in people, do you, old man? Don’t try to pick me apart. I refuse to be psychoanalyzed so that you may imagine light where there are only shadows.”

Dumbledore leaned back, unfazed. “We both know the horrors you have faced, and I’ll not force you to rehash your past—”

“That’s settled, then,” Snape interrupted, but Dumbledore wasn’t about to be deterred.

“ _However_ ,” the headmaster firmly stated, “for some reason unknown to Harry, you chose to help him instead of leaving him to further harm.” The corners of Dumbledore’s lips rose a bit, and he softened his voice so that Harry had to strain to hear. “For which I am proud of you, Severus. I recall a moment not so long ago when you questioned whether, if the time came, you would make the decision to help a friend, far less a self-proclaimed enemy, in need. You have always been a great wizard; here is proof that you can be great man if you wish to be.” Dumbledore hesitated before adding softly, “She would have been grateful and proud.”

Snape winced as though he’d suffered a physical pain, and his face whitened beyond his usual pallor. After a moment, he spoke, in a pained hiss, “Are you really so mad, old man, as to think one indecisive—truly, one inconsequential—moment can tell the true nature of a man? Or, dafter still, that even a lifetime of those moments is capable of atoning for having committed the worst of all sins?”

“What happened in the past does not have to define you, Severus.” Dumbledore’s immediate answer was stern, yet loving. “What you do today, right now… _that_ is what defines you.”

Snape’s skepticism showed on his pale face, though he made no move to argue. He looked down to the table, his black hair falling forward, hiding his face from Harry’s view.

Both wizards sat in silence for several long moments, which was fine with Harry, as it gave him time to think. He hadn’t expected the personal turn of conversation, and he shifted uncomfortably, even though he knew neither wizard could see him.

Who was the “she” that Dumbledore had mentioned? And what was this “worst of all sins” that Snape seemed to think he had committed? It also hadn’t escaped his notice that Dumbledore had alluded to Snape’s own memories when talking about Harry’s family, and he wondered for the first time about the memories he’d briefly glimpsed of Snape’s own childhood during their Occlumency sessions…

But that thought was quickly overshadowed, and Harry felt a chill run through his entire body as he came to a familiar thought. Snape had been a Death Eater. He had probably tortured, killed, and done loads of unspeakable things in Voldemort’s service. What sort of horrible atrocity could he possibly have committed that would dwarf all of that to become his self-described “worst sin”?

Harry all of a sudden didn’t want to know.

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance at the two men before removing the Wall Watcher from his face. He was supposed to be getting answers by eavesdropping, not more questions!

He sat another minute, mind reeling from the conversation he had just heard. Most importantly, the fact that Dumbledore _knew_. Snape had told him…about Uncle Vernon…about everything. How would he see Harry now? But more importantly, would he still send him back to the Dursleys? Harry felt an unbidden flash of anger directed at the older wizard. Of course he would send him back! He’d sent him back before, hadn’t he? Sure, he hadn’t known quite as much…but he’d known plenty of other stuff, and he’d always sent him back!

Harry finally headed toward the kitchen, stopping short of the door to get his anger under control before facing Remus. One deep breath. Another. And another.

He forced his mind onto other things…like the fact that Dumbledore had promised not to make Snape and Harry work together again. _That_ , at least, was good news. The relief of hearing the headmaster give his word to not pair him up with Snape for lessons again helped combat his anger at the wizard for other things.

But still…there were simply too many questions and secrets and not enough answers, and Harry felt a headache coming on from thinking too much about them. Sighing, he tried to push the thoughts from his mind as firmly as he pushed open the door to the kitchen.

“Harry!” He was greeted right away by Remus’ welcoming smile. The man had turned quickly from the kitchen table, where it looked like he had been working on something. Harry couldn’t tell what exactly, as Remus had positioned his body directly in front, in an obvious attempt to hide whatever it was.

Harry couldn’t help himself. He craned his neck to get a look at yet one more secret someone was trying to hide from him. But Remus moved his body to block him still.

He glared. “What are you hiding, Remus?”

“Why, nothing, Harry,” Remus answered quickly, still smiling in the face of Harry’s suspicion. “Please have a seat. I’ll just clean up my meal and—”

“I’m not a little kid, you know, I’m sixteen. Whatever you’re hiding from me, I can handle it.” Harry crossed his arms in a gesture to let Remus know he wasn’t going to be put off.

Remus’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course you can, Harry. Tell you what. Why don’t you have a bite to eat while I clean up here, and we can talk about this later?”

Harry felt his headache worsen, along with all of his frustrations and anger…toward Snape and Dumbledore and Uncle Vernon and Voldemort…and every other person in his life who conspired to betray him in some way. Anger at secrets and hidden motives and adults treating him like he was nothing more than a child…all of it came rushing through him all at once, tiredness and frustrations pored out in a tirade directed right at the only person in the room—Remus Lupin.

“Damn it, Remus!” Harry shouted, temper taking over completely, “Why doesn’t anybody ever think to tell me what’s going on? I do have a stake in this war, you know! Maybe—oh, wait, maybe it’s that Voldemort KILLED MY PARENTS! Or maybe, just maybe, THIS SCAR THAT MAKES ME WATCH HIM TORTURE PEOPLE! OH, AND FEEL HIS ENJOYMENT OF IT ALL! YOU EXPERIENCE WHAT I’VE HAD TO GO THROUGH, THEN JUST TRY AND TELL ME I DON’T DESERVE TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON!”

Harry was seeing red, his vision clouding in on him, he was so angry at it all. So angry that when Remus reached out a hand to calm him, Harry jerked back. “NO! DON’T YOU TRY TO CODDLE ME LIKE A LITTLE KID! I DESERVE MORE, REMUS! I DESERVE MORE! SIRIUS WOULDN’T HAVE TREATED ME LIKE THIS! HE WOULDN’T HAVE—” Harry stopped on a choked sob, and humiliation ran through him as he realized he was on the verge of crying.

Here he was screaming that he wasn’t a little kid, and he was about to cry like a baby.

Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, forcing himself past the danger point. He jerked back at another attempt by Remus to reach out at him. But he stayed silent this time, biting his tongue at another angry tirade.

Remus didn’t try to touch him a third time. “Harry…” he began tentatively, continuing when Harry didn’t interrupt or explode at him, “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you felt so strongly. I…didn’t mean to compound the issue for you, I assure you.”

Harry opened his eyes to warily take in Remus. The man looked even older than usual, face drawn in sadness and shock. He seemed braced for another outburst at any moment, and Harry felt shame inch its way through his wall of anger.

“I…” Remus paused before finishing his thought, and stepped to the side to reveal what he had been hiding from Harry’s prying eyes. “I was going to surprise you later, Harry. I know you’ve had a rough couple of days… Anyway, happy birthday, Harry.”

Harry deflated as the anger, frustration, and steam left him in an instant, replaced by the worst sort of humiliation. There, on the table near where Remus had been sitting, was a small, half-decorated birthday cake. “Happy Bir” was clearly written on its top, where Remus had been in the middle of finishing the words with a few waves of his wand.

Harry barely made it to the table to sit opposite where Remus still stood by the cake. His legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer, and his stomach felt about to lose its contents…although luckily, it didn’t have any. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. _Oh yeah, last night. Mrs. Weasely’s package_ , came the fleeting thought. He supposed the thought of sleep had overcome any thoughts of food. And now, hollow stomach or no, actually having a meal had never sounded so unappealing.

Folding his arms on the table, he dropped his heavy head to rest on them. Here he had just chewed out Remus, when the kind man had done nothing more than remember his birthday.

He was the worst sort of insensitive prat.

“I’m sorry, Remus,” he groaned, his voice muffled by his arm, “I shouldn’t have…I mean, I didn’t mean it, not really. Not at you. I…I’m just so sorry.”

This time, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he didn’t jerk away. The hand rubbed slow, small circles on his back, and a weight settled in the chair next to Harry.

“It’s alright, Harry,” came Remus’ slow, soothing voice. “I knew you must have had a rough couple of days. I suppose I underestimated quite how rough.”

Remus continued to rub Harry’s back, which helped considerably with the physical ache he felt at his horrible gaffe. They sat like that for a while, the calming hand on Harry’s back and the heavy ache of his head lulling him into a not-quite sleeping, yet not-quite awake state.

He was barely aware in his drowsy mind when the rubbing of his back stopped, though he felt the coldness in its absence. And he didn’t know how long he had been sitting there before he heard the clanking sounds of utensils against dishes, and finally a soft voice near his ear calling him by name.

Figuring it wasn’t likely he’d be able to pretend for long that he didn’t hear, he slowly lifted his head. But he was careful to avoid eye contact with Remus.

“Here, Harry. Eat,” Remus ordered softly as he pushed a bowl of some sort of stew in front of him.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled. His stomach still felt upset, but he latched onto the spoon for no other reason than to have something to do while under Remus’ scrutiny.

The room was quiet for a few long moments, save for the sounds of Harry’s spoon on the sides of his bowl. As conspicuous as Harry felt at first, he started not to care so much about that as the food hit his stomach, which rumbled in demand for more. He briefly wondered if the ache he’d been feeling was entirely nerves or if it had more to do with lack of food. He spooned faster, as the full awareness of his hunger hit him.

“Whoa, Harry!” Remus slowed Harry’s hand with his own, a hint of laughter in his voice. “You’d think your family never fed you!”

Harry couldn’t help but swivel his head at that. Had Remus figured things out? But Remus’ eyes only showed amusement. He didn’t know.

Harry sighed and took another bite of food, quickly, before Remus started asking him any more questions.

No such luck.

“Harry, you do know you can tell me anything, right?” Remus began, in his gentlest tone.

After a brief hesitation, Harry gave a polite nod and returned to his food.

“I mean it, Harry. Whatever you need to say, you can tell me the truth. The headmaster and I won’t let anything happen to you, you know…”

“Um…yeah. I know, Remus.” He cast a helpless glance around the room for something to distract Remus from his line of questioning, but he could think of nothing except running straight out the door. And that wouldn’t exactly help with easing Remus’ concerns.

“Harry…” Remus took a deep breath and let it out, leaning forward. “Professor Snape may be a teacher at your school, but that does not give him the right to harm you. You must be honest with me so that we may prevent it from happening again.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. He couldn’t let Remus think what he thought had happened, but that would involve telling him the truth. And he couldn’t let him know about that, either. It was horrible enough that both Snape and Dumbledore now thought he was a weakling who couldn’t stand up for himself to his bully of an uncle.

“Harry,” Remus was more intent at seeing Harry’s indecisiveness, “What did Severus do to you? What happened? I’ll protect you, I swear. Just tell me.”

Harry tried, he really did. He even opened his mouth again. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to admit to his father’s only remaining true friend that he wasn’t strong enough to stand up to his Muggle uncle. So he shut his mouth, drawing his lips into a tight line. And he could feel, more than see, Remus’ frustration at his refusal to cooperate.

“Having trouble speaking, Potter?” A sneer brought both wizards’ attentions to the doorway of the kitchen, where Snape now stood, moving to enter. “I would think that your tendency to think only of yourself would make an offer of protection highly motivating.”

Harry grimaced at what Snape had heard, or rather, _not_ heard. After all, by keeping silent, Harry was letting Remus continue to believe that Snape was behind his injuries…and that belief was turning Remus an pale sort of plum color. The man didn’t respond to the taunting, but probably only because Dumbledore entered the kitchen a few moments after Snape.

The two men took a seat at the table, directly opposite where Remus sat with Harry. The tension in the air couldn’t have gone unnoticed by Dumbledore, but he apparently chose to ignore it, as he pleasantly started right in, “Well, Harry, as I must be off soon, I think it necessary that we discuss your living arrangements for the remainder of the summer.”

Harry glanced at the older wizard through carefully guarded eyes. Was this where he would be told that he was heading back to the “care” of the Dursleys? He managed not to glare…though just barely. But as he didn’t know what to say, he took another bite of his food.

“After speaking with Professor Snape,” Dumbledore continued, “it has become clear to me that it is not in your best interest to return to the home of the Dursleys.”

“It isn’t?” Harry looked up again, taken aback. He’d already prepared himself for the worst.

“It is not,” Dumbledore confirmed, a reassuring smile in place. “Instead, we have decided that you will be staying here.”

“Here,” Harry repeated, still absorbing the fact that he wouldn’t be sent back to the Dursleys after all. As it fully hit him, he felt the sudden urge to laugh. He settled for a grin. “All month? Until school starts? How about Ron and Hermione? Can they come to stay too?”

Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling as he held up his hand. “Yes, you will be staying here until the beginning of the school year. As for your other question, I do have it on good authority that your friends will be in residence toward the end of the summer. Until then, you are free to correspond with them as often as you wish.”

Well, not a bad trade-off, considering everything. Harry felt truly happy for the first time all day.

“You may stay in the room which Dobby was so kind as to prepare for you,” the headmaster said, “and you may spend your days in any room that you wish, with a few exceptions.” He waited for Harry’s nod of acceptance before elaborating, “Firstly, this house is still used for the occasional Order meeting. You are not to attempt to attend these meetings unless I give you express permission to do so. Is that understood?”

Harry nodded slowly, considering. He wanted to be honest, and he honestly knew that his need to know what was going on all the time would make that rule incredibly hard to follow without argument. But then, he didn’t really have a choice. As Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for a more definite answer, he said, “Yes, sir. I understand.”

And though Dumbledore gave him a knowing look that caused Harry to fidget slightly, he moved on. “Secondly, you are not permitted to enter Professor Snape’s sleeping quarters or his temporary laboratory at any time without his permission.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Sleeping quarters?” Until then, he’d completely forgotten the portion of the overheard conversation about Snape staying at Grimmauld Place.

But his question was overshadowed by Remus, who had instantly risen out of his chair. “ _He’s_ staying here? With Harry! Albus, after what he—”

“Please sit, Remus,” Dumbledore cut him off gently, though somehow even the powerful wizard’s gentle words carried quite a bit of force behind them.

Remus sat, though he wasn’t through arguing. “Albus, how can you even think of leaving Harry alone with him? He makes it clear every day how much he hates Harry! How can you possibly think this a wise course of action?”

“Worried you won’t be around to save him from my evil ways, Lupin?” Snape apparently couldn’t resist taunting.

Remus looked angry now, and Harry shuddered as he was actually reminded of Remus’ werewolf self ready to strike.

“Severus,” Dumbledore scolded simply, then redirected his attention to Remus. “I have spoken with Severus about the concerns you were diligent in bringing to my attention. He has answered them to my satisfaction, and there will be no more discussion on the matter. You will need to trust me in this, Remus.”

“I do trust you, Albus. I believe the issue that we have established is that I am finding it difficult to trust him.” Remus pointed at Snape, who, while sporting a sneer, remained stoically silent after Dumbledore’s scolding.

“He has done a great many services over the years, not only to the cause of the light, but for myself personally, and I am truly grateful,” Remus said, “but I know what I saw, Albus! Harry did not come by those injuries by falling. Someone did that to him, and Severus Snape, who time and again announces his antagonism toward Harry, was the only one with him for the past several days!”

Remus had half raised his wand to gesture at Snape, and before Harry had time to react, Snape brandished his own wand and stood to face Remus. All Harry could do was stare at the wands and remember the standoff between Snape and Sirius that had taken place in this very room during the past Christmas break. That had started over Harry too…

“Gentlemen!” Dumbledore boomed. “Put your wands away! Severus, sit! There is no need to resort to violence.”

“No nee— Albus, that is the whole point!” Remus argued, exasperated, though his wand was lowered. “ _He_ resorted to—”

“No, he didn’t!” Harry found himself yelling. He was all of a sudden fed up with the adults in his life constantly arguing over him and about him.

All talking stopped, as three pairs of eyes turned to him as one. Harry blinked, not having prepared what to say next. All he knew was that this was ridiculous. He hadn’t meant for things to get blown so out of proportion when he’d fudged over his injuries with Remus.

“Harry?” Remus asked cautiously.

Harry cast a helpless glance at Dumbledore, though he realized as he did that even though he knew that the headmaster knew about Uncle Vernon now, the older wizard didn’t know that _Harry_ knew that he knew…or, well…it was something like that…

All Dumbledore did was give him a small encouraging smile, and Snape stayed silent, still rigid after having taken a seat on Dumbledore’s orders. They both seemed to be letting him decide whether to tell Remus the truth. Remus wasn’t speaking either, his attentive face letting Harry know that no matter the truth, he’d be there for him. Harry felt his heart warm at realizing that he already knew that. Too bad it didn’t make this any easier.

He cleared his throat, putting it off for just another moment, then plunged right in. “Er…well, look. Sna— I mean, Professor Snape didn’t do anything to me. We all know he hates me and all.” He thought better than to add that the feeling was mutual or to glance at Snape right then. “But…um, he didn’t hurt me in any way, I swear.”

Harry took another breath to organize his thoughts, then blurted them out in a rush of words. “I was getting water ‘cause it was hot in the garden, see, and Professor Snape showed up all injured and out of it, and I had to hide him, and when Uncle Vernon found out I didn’t finish the weeds, he wasn’t exactly happy and he sort of yanked my arm.”

He searched Remus’ face for a reaction to his speedy explanation, but he found only more confusion. After a moment, Remus narrowed his response to the focus of conversation. “Your uncle? He _sort of_ yanked your arm? Harry, Madam Pomfrey listed your arm as _severely_ sprained. And the bruises! And what about your face?” Remus’ puzzlement with the whole situation clearly shined through in his every word.

Dumbledore and Snape remained silent, letting Harry control the conversation, so he took his cue from them and only addressed Remus…who by now only looked more confused.

“Well, maybe he was more than a little upset about the weeds,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “And maybe it…wasn’t the first time. It kinda already hurt from the last time he yanked it. And from getting Professor Snape up the stairs before they found him. He’s not…er, exactly light. It was after that that it _really_ started to hurt…” Harry trailed off, deciding that this explaining every little instance was too excruciating and tedious. Especially with the three older wizards just sitting there, staring at him. Maybe it would be better to just get it all out.

So he did, ignoring his overwhelming desire to keep it secret. “Look, Remus, it was all Uncle Vernon, okay? This isn’t the first summer he’s yanked me around like that. And he gave me the bruise on my face, too. He was mad that I hadn’t finished my chores, and things sort of…escalated.”

Remus opened his mouth to speak and promptly closed it, only to repeat his attempt to speak. He finally managed, “Esc— Harry, what do you mean…escalated?”

Harry cringed. Remus wasn’t shouting, but Harry sure felt like he was.

Remus’ face dawned understanding at Harry’s uncomfortable silence. “Your uncle hit you? And the—the rest of the bruises?”

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak further with all eyes on him. Instead, he nodded, studying his hands on the table to distract himself from his discomfort. He was acutely aware when the other two wizards rose from the table to exit the kitchen, leaving him alone with Remus. He breathed a little easier, grateful for the more private conversation.

“Harry…”

“It’s okay, Remus. Really,” Harry regained his voice and rushed to stop whatever coddling was about to occur. “It’s not like I’m messed up or anything because of it. It happened, and it’s over. And it wasn’t even really that bad. I’m fine,” he finished firmly.

Remus looked as though he thought Harry was anything _but_ fine. The man spoke through clenched teeth to question, “Not that bad? What do you mean by that, Harry? Has it…has he ever…?” He trailed off, gesturing feebly with his hands.

Resisting the urge to run from the room, Harry looked up to meet Remus’ horrified gaze. He felt a sudden wave of exhaustion roll over him at this never-ending day. “Does it really matter, Remus? I mean, it’s not like they beat me or anything. It was just a slap for not finishing chores, that’s all.”

“Just!”

“Yes, just! Look, I appreciate your caring about me and all, Remus, I really do.” Harry tried to soften his darkening tone to show he really was grateful, “It’s just…I’m really okay. I’m not a little kid anymore. I know the difference between the way things are and the way they’re supposed to be. Only…things don’t always work out the way they’re supposed to or the way you wish they would, you know?”

Remus’ face told that he felt as defeated as Harry. “Yes, Harry,” he sighed, “I do know. I would do everything in my power if only I could see your father one more time. And Sirius, my friend…to find him, only to lose him again…” Remus’ voice wavered slightly, and he cleared his throat. “But they’re not here, Harry, and I know that nothing I can do will change that. Accepting death is a part of life. Accepting abuse, however, does not have to be,” he stressed, fervent emotion in his brown eyes.

Harry squirmed under his sharp gaze.

Remus brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, breathing a heavy sigh, before continuing, “Harry, look. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this summer, going through some of Sirius’ old things… I know how much he meant to you, and how much it meant to him to come to know James’ son. I…just want you to know that while we may not be as close as you and Sirius were in the end, I do care about you. I can be here for you…should you need anything.”

Harry nodded, swallowing against something oddly large in his throat. Hearing out loud that Remus cared about Harry… It made him feel nice inside, even through all the other emotions churning around.

And he came to a sudden realization then, taking in Remus’ words, intense gaze, and recent out of the ordinary protectiveness. It was an insight Harry that somehow just knew. Harry was grieving Sirius, yes, but he wasn’t doing so alone. Remus was grieving in his own way—a way which apparently included a need to take over the most important role his two best Marauder friends had left behind…that of parenting Harry.

Even if Sirius _had_ been more of a friend than a parent…

Harry liked Remus. He really did…he sort of loved him, actually. So he couldn’t understand why the thought of Remus wanting to take on that role made him feel so conflicted. He should be happy to have someone wanting to take care of him…right?

So why didn’t the thought make him happy? Or content, at the very least?

“Remus…” Harry cleared his throat. He had a lot to think about, but he needed to say something; Remus was just watching him, waiting for a reply. “Thanks. I mean it, really, thanks. My dad and Sirius…they were lucky to have you for a friend.”

“You’re welcome, Harry. And thank _you_.” Remus smiled and reached around to pat Harry on the shoulder. “I’ll be leaving shortly to accompany the headmaster on a few errands for the Order. Will you be alright until my return in a few days?”

Harry felt the urge to point out that he’d managed alright for years without Remus checking in on him, but he thought better than to spoil the first completely calm moment he’d had with the man all day. He nodded and left it at that.

“Good,” Remus smiled, rising from his chair toward the pantry door, “Now, we have a birthday cake to consume, do we not?”

Harry grinned as his stomach rumbled loudly.

Remus set the birthday cake on the table in front of Harry, and with several flourishes of his wand, completed the decorating he had begun earlier, complete with sixteen burning candles that floated just above the cake so as not to ruin the frosting.

Harry looked to Remus, who made him wait until he had told the other wizards they could return, and with Remus, Dumbledore, and a reluctant Snape gathered around the table, he finally blew out all sixteen candles in one breath. Well, maybe in two breaths.

It was Dumbledore, with twinkling eyes, who congratulated him first with a jovial, “Happy birthday, Harry!”

Remus said it second…and last.

The third guest at Harry’s impromptu birthday party didn’t appear nearly as happy to be “invited,” and as soon as Remus set to cutting the cake with a spell from his wand, Snape excused himself and swept out of the room.

That suited Harry fine, of course. He could only hope that Snape would be just as reclusive in the following weeks. He really didn’t want to think of the close proximity he would be sharing with the man. For now, it was his birthday. Dark thoughts and worries involving Professor Severus Snape could wait.

He turned back to Remus and Dumbledore, thankful for their smiles and this reprieve from questions and the day’s emotional toll. Yeah, he had pleasanter things to think about, he grinned to himself as he bit into a delicious piece of cake.

And just as chocolate eased the effects of dementors, Harry chased away thoughts of uncles and Potions masters with his very own slice of chocolate birthday cake.


	12. Dead Smelly Toads

“ _Crucio_!”

The useless servant fell into a heap at his feet, begging for mercy as only the most pathetic of his followers would dare to do.

Rage seared like fire through his veins.

The Dark Lord knew hate. He hated Muggles, Muggle-borns, and blood traitors…and he hated anyone who thought they could best him. Truth be told, he even hated his own Death Eaters. In the years while he had languished in that strange limbo between life and death, they had achieved nothing. They were weak. They needed a strong master to guide them and to discipline them.

He watched his servant writhe under the force of another curse.

This hatred, however, was different from the hatred he felt for his own followers. This hatred he felt with his entire being, from the core of his malevolent heart. This hatred was directed at the boy. The ridiculous child who continued to elude him at every turn. The boy in whose blood contained the key to his own rise of power, but in whose mysterious scar was rumored to hold the key to his downfall.

He cast another curse, harsher now, as though it were directed toward the very object of his hatred.

“You let the boy escape,” he hissed angrily at his servant. The rage intensified. “YOU LET HIM ESCAPE!”

Harry sat abruptly in his tangled bed sheets, hands clasped over his searing scar. His chest was heaving in quick breaths, his shirt soaked in sweat, and it took him a moment to remember where he was.

Grimmauld Place. Upstairs bedroom.

He breathed slower, gaining his bearings, and lay back down, open eyes focused on the darkness around him, illuminated only by the moon. It was nowhere near dawn by the looks of it.

Apparently Voldemort knew he was gone from Privet Drive. Harry felt a wave of anxiety at that, but it was only a matter of time, after all. Besides, Dumbledore had assured Harry before he’d left that he would be safe here.

Safe.

With Snape?

Yeah, right.

Dumbledore and Remus had stayed long enough a few nights ago to finish their small celebrations and run through the list of rules again with Harry.

Order meetings prohibited. Check.

Snape’s space prohibited. Check.

And a third rule, added by Dumbledore for extra measure: Snape was in charge. Harry was not.

Check.

The rule wasn’t unexpected, of course. Snape was the adult and the professor, after all, not to mention a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Still…before Dumbledore spelled it out like that, though in an admittedly gentler way, Harry had imagined he might be able to have a bit of a holiday in this old house. He had his wizard things back, more than a dingy old bedroom of Dudley’s to wander around in, and deliciously filling food at his beck and call. He even had Dobby for company. But after Dumbledore’s last rule, all he could imagine were visions of ridicule and detentions. Of course, seeing as it was summer, Snape wouldn’t call them that. They would be “sessions of consequences for daring to be alive.” And each time he envisioned different ways Snape could find to torture him, his spirits had sunk lower.

Despite still feeling a smidgen of his earlier relief, he was not all that sure that Grimmauld Place with Snape was a better place for him than Privet Drive with Uncle Vernon. Sure, Snape _probably_ wouldn’t physically harm him, what with Dumbledore keeping an eye out…but Snape didn’t care any more about Harry than the Dursleys did, plus he wasn’t exactly known for treating students—least of all Harry—with anything approaching kindness or fairness. Harry’d just jumped from being under the thumb of one bully to being under the heel of another. It was downright depressing.

As if to prove the accuracy of Harry’s thoughts, he’d barely sat down for breakfast the first morning of their stay when Snape had stalked into the kitchen, crossed his arms in his most foreboding stance, and launched directly into a lecture without so much as a greeting: “As we are forced yet again to endure the unfortunate circumstance of sharing a roof, you will abide by my rules. Unless directed otherwise, you will confine yourself to any room where I and my belongings are not present. There will be no wandering the house at night. No inane attempts at magic, heroics, or contacting your dunderheaded friends by any way other than owl post. No running through the house, no loud or otherwise disturbing antics, no complaining about lack of sufficient entertainment, and no talking back to me when I issue you a direct order. Disobedience on any one of these points will result in you scrubbing cauldrons for the remainder of your holiday.” He finished his long speech to look Harry directly in the eyes. “Are we clear, Mr. Potter?”

Harry had barely muttered a disgruntled, “yes, sir,” before Snape had spun on his heel and stalked right back out of the kitchen.

That was three days ago, and Harry had yet to hear Snape say one more word to him. In fact, he’d barely seen a glimpse of the man. Snape had apparently decided to hole up in his potions laboratory and pretend that Harry didn’t exist for the duration of their stay together.

Harry wasn’t complaining, really. A happy side effect of being ignored was that Snape hadn’t given Harry one single order…well, other than the dozen first ones, which all basically added up to staying out of the man’s way.

So Harry had spent his first couple days exploring the house, playing against himself at wizard chess, and even flipping through some of the books in the house. By the end of the second day, he was completely bored, not to mention lonely. No one else had entered the house since Remus and Dumbledore had left, and Snape kept Dobby constantly running back and forth obtaining potions ingredients or doing odd chores for him. That left Harry without even the company of the little house-elf.

He heaved a sigh, and, deciding these thoughts weren’t getting him anywhere and it wasn’t likely he’d be getting any sleep with his scar still prickling, he pushed his blankets aside and plodded toward the door in Dudley’s old nightclothes. These particular castoffs he actually didn’t mind so much. They were large, but that made them kind of comfy.

To his surprise, when he opened his bedroom door, he found the hallway already dimly lit from below. Peering over the landing, he took in the source of the light—a not-quite-closed drawing room door.

It was practically an open invitation to snoop, and Harry was all too happy to oblige.

His bare feet made no sound as he tiptoed down the steps. He placed first an eye, then an ear, to the crack in the door. He couldn’t see a thing from this angle, but as he listened carefully, he could make out voices. No, just one—Snape’s voice. He seemed to be talking to someone, as he would occasionally pause, as if waiting for a response. But Harry couldn’t hear a responding voice, only silence.

He nearly snickered at the thought of his Potions professor going nutters, talking into thin air. He barely held his silence, when Snape’s voice raised just a fraction in volume, and Harry could finally make out a few words.

“…hidden…know I can’t say…Secret Keeper…”

Harry pressed himself as close to the door as he could without moving it, his ear straining to hear more as Snape’s voice paused for response from the unknown party, then resumed.

“…loyalties…” Another pause. “…Dark Lord, Lucius…”

Harry managed to not make a sound, his blood turning to ice through his veins, as realized who Snape was talking to: Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy was one of Voldemort’s most loyal followers, and Snape was talking to him like…like they were still on the same side.

He managed to stand completely still as he waited for Snape’s next words, but as before, he couldn’t make anything out.

Actually, he couldn’t hear anything now. Not even the hum of a voice.

Harry spun round and sprinted for the kitchen as quickly as he dared. He couldn’t know how much time he had before—

“Potter!” The angry shout had no more been issued from the doorway of the drawing room than the man was upon him, his arm snaking out to grab hold of the back of Harry’s nightshirt, halting his escape down the stairs. Harry was spun around and found himself face to face with Snape’s thunderous black eyes.

Ooh, the man was angry. Harry forced himself not to flinch.

“What did you hear, Potter? Tell me! What did you hear?” Snape hissed, pale face contorted in rage.

“N—nothing! I—”

“Do _not_ lie to me!” The man’s already black eyes darkened.

“I—I was just on my way to the kitchen, I swear! I heard someone talking, but I couldn’t hear words.”

Harry felt something pressing in on his mind and realized that Snape was performing Legilimency on him. He broke eye contact before the professor could tell that he wasn’t being entirely truthful.

Harry’s shirt was abruptly released and he grabbed hold of the stair railing to keep himself from stumbling.

“Kitchen. Now,” grated Snape, looking about ready to commit murder, or, at the very least, an Unforgivable.

Harry took a quick look around. Without his wand, what could he use as a weapon to defend himself?

But Snape was not in a patient mood. He placed his long, cold fingers on the back of Harry’s neck and propelled him forward, down the rest of the stairs, through the kitchen door, and into the closest chair.

Snape stood between Harry and the door, effectively blocking any chance of escape, and Harry had no choice but to sit, dread filling him at not knowing what the menacing man had in store for him.

“We are not at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter,” Snape spoke quietly, crossing his arms authoritatively, “There are no adoring fans for you to impress; there are no indulgent teachers to give in to your every whim. _I_ am the only one here. I, and I alone, will determine the way in which you spend the remainder of your summer holiday. And do believe me…I can be quite creative when necessary.” Snape leaned forward suddenly as he finished his lecture, placing one hand on either side of Harry’s chair.

Try as he might, Harry couldn’t hold in a flinch that time. Snape’s face was way too close to his for comfort, and he couldn’t help but be very aware at that moment that there was no one else in the house to help him. Well, no other wizard, that is…but thinking of Dobby’s methods of helping him wasn’t really much comfort.

Thankfully, in the next moment, Snape backed away. He was still visibly angry, but something in his eyes had shifted when Harry had flinched. They had taken on a contemplative gleam, and he looked…startled, maybe? Cautious? Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint it, and before he could, Snape apparently decided to switch tactics and crooked a finger. “Come, Potter,” he ordered and immediately turned to stalk out the door.

Harry hesitated. He really didn’t want to follow that man anywhere in the mood he was in… 

“COME, POTTER!”

Harry jumped out of his chair and warily followed Snape across the hallway and up several flights of stairs. He hovered at the doorway to what must be Snape’s makeshift potions laboratory. Bottles and jars filled with potions ingredients lined shelves along all four walls, and a cabinet off to one side probably held even more. Several cauldrons were simmering with half-finished brews, and more empty cauldrons were stacked on the ground against the farthest wall. Snape had stalked to one side of the room and was currently emptying the contents of one of the jars.

“There,” Snape waved his hand over both the slimy pile and the shelf above it, which was packed full of jars, each filled with the same slimy contents. “I’ll expect the entire shelf of toads to be disemboweled by morning. Get started.”

Harry stepped back. “Wh—what? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Precisely, Potter. Did I or did I not tell you that there was to be no wandering the house at night?”

“I couldn’t sleep!”

“Good. Disemboweling toads is less difficult if you are completely awake.”

Harry gaped as Snape turned his back to stir the contents of one of his cauldrons. He couldn’t be serious!

“Get started, Mr. Potter!” Snape repeated, his tone edgy with impatience.

Harry threw a nasty glare at the professor’s back, then moved to get to work. Ugh. At least he knew how to do this; they’d had to in class last term. He hadn’t liked it much then, either. He also hadn’t had an entire shelf to do in one sitting.

They worked in silence for the next hour, Snape checking each cauldron in turn, occasionally stirring or adding ingredients, while Harry ran through a mental list of every reason he hated Potions….and Potions professors.

Not least of all that he _still_ didn’t know where the man’s loyalties were. Could he still be loyal to Voldemort? Harry had felt Voldemort’s thoughts toward the man when he had been torturing him, and he knew Voldemort genuinely believed Snape to have betrayed him. But might he be mistaken? Or might Snape be on neither side—might he be playing both sides to serve his own shady end?

The only thing that Harry knew with absolute certainty was that Lucius Malfoy was not on the right side. Harry was disinclined to even trust Snape, who had Dumbledore’s vote of confidence…but he’d simply had too many run-ins with the senior Malfoy to believe that he was even remotely capable of spying for the side of the light. Which meant that Snape, who was contacting Malfoy, was either still spying in some capacity or really was working for the wrong side.

And then Harry had another thought, sudden and completely unrelated to the question of either man’s loyalties. Wasn’t Lucius Malfoy supposed to still be in Azkaban after the Department of Mysteries? Harry always felt cut off from wizarding news while at the Dursleys, but surely he’d have heard about it if Malfoy had escaped from Azkaban…right?

Apparently not.

Well, he was hardly going to ask Snape about it. He’d know Harry had overheard him talking, and after all, he could make his holiday… _creative_. Harry involuntarily shivered. He wasn’t keen on doing anything more _creative_ than preparing potions ingredients.

Snape didn’t even look tired, Harry thought with annoyance, and he was dressed in his regular black clothes. Didn’t the man ever sleep? Remembering all the times he’d run into Snape wandering the halls at night at Hogwarts, he was inclined to think not.

Harry tossed another completed toad into a jar, then started on the next. He was working more quickly now, getting used to the routine. As much as he was loathe to admit it, even to himself, he was beginning to be almost glad for something to do. Boredom, it turned out, was even worse than having to cut up smelly dead toads.

He wouldn’t have admitted as much to Snape, of course. The man would either send him back to his boredom, knowing it was the worse punishment, or he’d use it as an excuse to work Harry to the bone for the rest of summer.

He reached for another toad and stifled the beginnings of a yawn. He hadn’t realized until then that his scar didn’t hurt anymore. The prickling feeling was gone, and along with that, his desire to be awake.

He yawned again at the mere thought of going back to sleep.

“Dobby!”

Harry jumped at Snape’s sudden call for the house-elf. He’d grown rather used to the quiet.

Dobby appeared with a pop, huge eyes trained on Snape. “Dobby is here. What is Professor Snape wanting, sir?”

“There is a green bottle in my most recent package from Professor Dumbledore. Bring it to me.”

“Yes, Professor Snape, sir!” And with a pop, Dobby was gone.

Harry reached for another toad and couldn’t help a glance at his Potions professor. He was mostly turned away from Harry, slowly stirring the ingredients of a cauldron, his profile barely visible. What struck Harry right then was that Snape looked so…well, calm. The tension that had permeated the man’s air only an hour before was hardly noticeable now. In fact, Harry couldn’t ever remember seeing his professor as at ease as he seemed right then, stirring his slowly simmering potions.

It occurred to Harry that maybe making potions was for Snape like flying on a broom was for Harry. It was his retreat, somewhere he could escape the world for a little while. And here, away from Hogwarts, maybe he was calmer because he could do it for the sake of doing it, not with dozens of children and professors alike constantly underfoot. After all, Harry didn’t have any trouble figuring out that Snape preferred to be alone.

“I don’t hear you working, Mr. Potter.” Snape said without turning around.

Giving a slight jump at being caught, even if Snape hadn’t seen where his attention had been focused, Harry quickly got back to work.

A pop sounded, and Dobby handed a small green bottle to Snape. “Is Professor Snape wanting Dobby to bring him anything else, sir?”

“No. That will be all. You may wait here in case I should have need of you.”

“Y—yes, Professor Snape, sir.” Dobby’s big eyes held a tinge of dismay, his ears drooping slightly. “Is Professor Snape wanting Dobby to clean more leeches, sir?”

Harry shuddered. At least he’d been assigned the toads over the leeches.

“No. That will be unnecessary.”

Dobby stood for another moment, ears drooping further, before raising slightly. “Is Professor Snape wanting Dobby to—”

“Prof— _I_ will not be requiring your services at the moment, Dobby,” Snape stated firmly, voice betraying a hint of impatience. “Wait over there,” Snape pointed at a spot near Harry, “and do not _do anything_ unless I _tell_ you to.”

As soon as Dobby turned to do Snape’s bidding and set eyes on Harry, he jumped forward in something resembling a very awkward jig. “Harry Potter!” Dobby’s eyes lit up, and his ears reached for the ceiling. “Dobby will wait here all day doing nothing if he is to be doing it next to Harry Potter!”

And with that, the little house-elf jumped to stand in the indicated corner, eyes happily blinking his adoration.

Harry, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Blatantly showing Snape one more instance of someone who only tolerated Snape’s company but who hero-worshipped Harry… well, it didn’t seem the best way to get through the summer in one piece.

Knowing that Snape hated too much chatter in his potions classes, Harry gave Dobby a small smile, then dutifully returned to his task.

Dobby, however, didn’t seem to share his concerns. “Harry Potter is working very hard, sir. Dobby will do his work, Harry Potter, sir!”

“Dobby will not.” Snape clipped out the order without pausing in his work.

Dobby’s ears fell at the missed opportunity, and Harry kind of felt bad for the little house-elf. Spending the past three days straight running back and forth, doing random tasks for a thankless Snape, couldn’t be all that fun. And the whole time Dobby had been working so hard, Harry had been lazing about the house to the extent that he had become bored out of his mind.

He was feeling little bit guilty. Hermione would have been proud.

“Here, Dobby,” he whispered, still unwilling to break the silence more than necessary, “you can use my chair. I don’t need it right now.” It was true, he thought as he pushed his chair away from him and toward the tired house-elf. He was getting tired himself, and standing for a bit would help.

Dobby’s eyes welled up with tears. “Harry Potter is giving his chair to a house-elf? Dobby knows Harry Potter to be a great wizard, sir, but Dobby—”

“Just take it, Dobby!” Harry whispered quickly, hoping to silence the house-elf, who was beginning to wail rather loudly. He just about slammed his own head on the table in true house-elf fashion at his own impulsiveness. He should have known better. If he hadn’t been so tired, maybe he would have stopped to think about the usual effect his simple gestures of courtesy had on the little creature. “Dobby! Dobby, shh!”

“Harry Potter is so kind and good and wonderful to us house-elves!” Dobby sniffed, trying to obey Harry’s order to quiet down. “So selfless and noble and—”

Harry distinctly heard a snort coming from the other side of the room as Dobby continued his ode to Harry Potter, and he swiveled to get an idea of just how much trouble he was going to be in for his part in this sudden outburst.

Snape had finally turned from his potions, and surprisingly, didn’t appear to be angry. Harry figured he had the calming influence of the potions lab to thank for that. The man did, however, look as though he thought the kind words coming out of the elf’s mouth about Harry were the most absurd claims he had ever heard.

“Dobby, go to the kitchen. We will require breakfast in thirty minutes’ time,” Snape ordered in an apparent attempt to rid himself of the loud wailing noises.

“Y—yes, p—professor Snape, s—sir!” Dobby gave Harry one last watery smile and Apparated from the room.

Harry sighed in relief.

“Care of Magical Creatures a little lax of late?” Snape asked snidely, eyebrows raised.

“Of course not! Hagrid’s an excellent teacher!” he defended automatically, though he flushed at knowing that to be an exaggeration, even on Hagrid’s best days. Harry hadn’t even known house-elves were supposed to be on the curriculum for Care of Magical Creatures. “And besides,” he continued, “house-elves aren’t like most magical creatures, not really. I mean, not like dragons or flobberworms. They can think and act for themselves, you know. They’re not _that_ different from wizards.”

“Yes. You have demonstrated their capabilities of theatrics to be worthy of any Hufflepuff first year. Very impressive indeed.”

Harry knew he wasn’t going to win, so he glared and picked up his next toad.

Thankfully, Snape took his victory without further argument. “Complete the one you are on, then wash up for breakfast. You’ll finish the rest later.”

Harry lifted his head in surprise, though Snape had already turned away. When the professor had said he had to finish the whole shelf by morning, he’d figured that meant without any breaks until he’d finished, even for food. That’s how it would have been at the Dursleys, and he hadn’t given any thought that Snape would be much better than them.

Well, on second thought, Snape _had_ been the one to take him away from his relatives, hadn’t he? And even if it had included revealing Harry’s secret, it had been of the professor’s conversation with Dumbledore that resulted in Harry not being sent back.

Harry realized then that he hadn’t even said so much as a thank you.

Yet somehow, when he thought that, his mouth refused to say the words. He had no trouble thanking his friends or thanking little Dobby or even thanking Dumbledore, after everything he’d been put through…but when it came to thanking the spiteful, loathsome, greasy-haired Potions master, he couldn’t quite get the words past his uncooperative throat.

Forcing it out of his mind, he finished the toad in his hands. _It’s just as well_ , he reasoned. Snape would probably find the whole scenario of Harry thanking him utterly revolting. After all, it’s like Snape had told Dumbledore…he didn’t care about Harry, not really. He was just the one who happened to be there.

And anyway, it wasn’t like Harry hadn’t helped him first by dragging him to his room and seeing, however awkwardly, to his injuries.

Right. Harry set aside the finished toads with a thoroughly satisfied conscience. He didn’t owe the man a thing, not really.

And if he had his way, he’d never owe Snape a thing in his life.


	13. Harry’s Wheezy

When Snape had threatened Harry with a summer filled with scrubbing cauldrons, he hadn’t been entirely truthful.

He’d neglected to mention de-sliming slugs, crushing beetles, chopping ginger roots, and Harry’s least favorite: separating puffer-fish parts—all tasks he’d been assigned in the course of the first thirty-six hours after his middle of the night escapade.

Of course, to Snape’s credit, he had given Harry quite a few breaks to eat, sleep, and “wander the house in an aimless adolescent waste of time and energy.” And to Harry’s credit, he hadn’t killed the greasy git.

Not that that was still out of the question, he fumed as he slammed his knife into a few unfortunate ginger roots.

Thankfully, Snape ignored him, busy as he was on the other side of the lab with what looked to be a fairly complicated potion. Harry liked to think Snape was ignoring him because he had a knife in his hands, but he supposed it would take more than a sixteen-year old with a potions instrument to worry the capable wizard.

He was midway through his next excessive swing of the knife when the loud pop of Dobby Apparating into the room caused him to jump, the knife barely missing his own fingers. That got his heart to beating, and for once it wasn’t out of anger.

He swung around, tempted to scold the house-elf, but biting his tongue when his curiosity won out. In the many hours Harry had spent in this lab over the past two days, Dobby hadn’t once entered unless called upon to do so by Snape. (Not that Harry blamed Dobby for not spending extra time in the loathsome man’s presence. Even house-elves had to have standards.)

“Professor Dumbledore and the Order wizards is here, Professor Snape, sir,” Dobby began solemnly, intent on relaying his important message, “And they is wanting Professor Snape to come to the meeting, sir.”

_Order meeting?_ Harry sat up straight, attention on Snape.

Snape had listened to Dobby’s announcement as if he had been expecting such a summons. “Very well,” he responded, turning down the heat on his cauldron and taking out his wand, “Tell the headmaster I will be along shortly.”

“You knew there was an Order meeting today?” Harry blurted out, unintentionally cutting off Dobby’s next words. He was half put out and half excited at the prospect of there being people in the house he could actually stand to be around.

Snape barely spared Harry an uninterested glance before turning to nearly inaudibly incant a spell over his cauldron, which caused the potion to immediately stop bubbling. In fact, it stopped everything. The steam that was rising above it froze into place, ready to resume its ascent at a later wave of Snape’s wand.

Pretty nifty spell, that. Harry wished he knew it. It would have made Potions a lot easier over the past five years if he could have time-frozen his own brews while he figured out what in Merlin’s name he was supposed to do next.

But that was beside the point.

“When were you going to tell me?” And a more important question: “Did Dumbledore say I could go to the meeting?”

Snape turned to Harry now, finished with his potion freezing spells. Instead of answering, he crossed his arms and studied Harry from above his large hooked nose. Harry could tell the man was trying to look intimidating, and he was doing a spot on job of it, but honestly…after being in such close quarters with the professor—even at his uncommunicative best—Harry figured if the man was going to kill or maim him, he’d probably have done it by now.

“ _Well?_ ” Harry pressed.

Snape sneered. “Well _what_ , Mr. Potter? I fail to see how you would have received the impression that I would share with you every detail I know of the Order or its plans. Especially,” he stressed, “ _as you are not a member_ of said Order.”

“I should be!” Harry argued. “Just because Dumbledore—”

“ _Professor_ Dumbledore! And, again,” he bit out, “you will address me as _sir_ or _professor_! Honestly, Potter. If you cannot respect those in positions of authority, how can you possibly expect to receive it in return?”

“I give respect where respect is due,” Harry countered, deliberately leaving off the _sir_. “And I _do_ respect Dumbledore! I don’t have to say ‘professor’ to prove it!”

“Ah, yes. I suppose your respect for the headmaster is at the forefront of your mind every time you break another one of his rules?”

“I only break rules when I need to—”

“And I only divulge important information regarding the Order and its plans _when I need to_. The difference, Potter, is that I, unlike you, have the capability to judge the necessary circumstances accurately.”

Harry barely managed an enraged sputter before Snape interrupted yet again, “You, _Mr. Potter_ , are a mere child. An arrogant, impertinent, spoil—” Snape broke off before he finished the word, though they both knew what he had been about to say.

But he couldn’t say that anymore, could he? And judging by the look on the professor’s face, Harry could guess that it hadn’t truly sunk in until just that moment that one of Snape’s ‘basic irrefutable facts about Harry Potter’ was, in fact, not true.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, suddenly ready to be done with the conversation.

“Respect, Potter,” Snape summed up, though he seemed to have lost his steam. “You might try it sometime.” And with that, he immediately made to leave the room, though he stopped before he’d taken two steps.

“Dobby,” Snape barked, in no pleasant mood, “Did I not tell you to inform the headmaster that I will be down shortly?”

Harry hadn’t even noticed that the house-elf was still there, but now he looked down to see Dobby’s wide eyes watching the two of them in rapt attention.

“Dobby is sorry, Professor Snape, sir! Dobby will punish himself most grievously for this!” With that, Dobby reached for the nearest cauldron stacked against the wall, beginning his familiar, “ _Bad_ Dobby! _Ba_ —”

Harry rushed over to stop the house-elf from banging his head on the cauldron. “Er, Dobby, it’s okay…no need to punish yourself this time. Maybe you should just, um, go.”

“Dobby told Professor Snape his message, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is not to leave until he has told Harry Potter his message as well!”

“A message for _me_?” Harry perked up. Maybe he would be summoned to the meeting after all…?

Dobby nodded furiously, ears flapping his enthusiasm. “Dobby is sent to inform Harry Potter that his Wheezy is here!”

Harry frowned. “My Wheez…?” And all at once, he felt a huge grin overtaking his face. “Ron? Ron is here? Where…downstairs?”

“That will be all, Dobby. You may go now,” Snape ordered before Dobby could answer, and the house-elf wasted no time Disapparating to safer quarters. “Clean your work area. Quickly,” the man ordered Harry and waited impatiently for his directions to be obeyed.

Harry was only too happy to comply, excited at the prospect of seeing his best friend after weeks of no contact other than through owl post. Even Snape’s impatient finger tapping couldn’t erase the smile on his face.

He was not disappointed a few minutes later when, upon descending the stairs to the hallway, the air was knocked out of him by a fierce hug, not from the friend he’d been expecting, but by a smaller, bushy-haired witch.

“Hermione! What’re you doing here?”

Hermione backed up long enough to grab his arm and haul him up the stairs toward his bedroom. He chanced a last glance toward the direction of the kitchen, where he saw Snape’s dark form retreating.

Hermione didn’t say a word until she’d pulled him all the way into his bedroom and shut the door.

Ron’s freckled face grinned at him from atop his bed. “I told her not to attack you this time, mate. How’d she do?”

“Ronald! We’ve more important matters to discuss!” Hermione waved a folded piece of parchment in breathless excitement. “Your O.W.L. results have arrived!”

Harry laughed, relieved to finally see his friends again. He eagerly reached for the parchment, settling himself onto a corner of his bed to view his results. It was odd, though, that there was no envelope. He looked up, unspoken question on his face.

Ron and Hermione, both sitting on the bed now as well, each had the grace to look a bit abashed.

“We didn’t want to pry, Harry, really,” Hermione rushed to explain, “but…well, Professor Dumbledore had your correspondence from the school sent to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley this summer. He asked them to pick up your school supplies for next year from Diagon Alley, see…and they couldn’t know what books to purchase without knowing what marks you received…” She looked as if she were bracing herself for an outburst similar to their first meeting last summer.

It was that, perhaps, that made Harry not at all angry at not being the first to open his own mail. Anyway, he didn’t know how long Ron and Hermione were going to be able to stay. He wasn’t all that sure he wanted to pass the short time arguing with them.

He had Snape for that.

He hurriedly unfolded the parchment to see his results. All in all, they weren’t as bad as he had feared. He’d failed his Divination and History of Magic exams, which wasn’t at all surprising. He’d also received an ‘Acceptable’ in Astronomy. But he’d received an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in pretty much everything else, except for Defense Against the Dark Arts, in which he had received an ‘Outstanding’!

It was enough to make him laugh in relief…until it sunk in that he hadn’t received the needed grade in Potions to continue on in Snape’s Advanced Potions class. And if he didn’t continue in that class, he had no hope of being accepted into the Auror program.

His laughter died on his lips, a disappointed feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He’d already figured he wouldn’t get a high enough mark, but still…actually seeing it written out in front of him, he felt like he was physically watching his Auror dreams go up in smoke.

“What’d the two of you get in Potions?” he asked, needing to know.

“Acceptable,” said Ron, at the same time as Hermione predictably said, “Outstanding.”

“Oh.” Well, at least he and Ron could sit this one out together. He folded up his results, firmly pushing his disappointment aside as Hermione filled up the silence.

“Here is the book list from Hogwarts. Ron and I brought your schoolbooks up so you can get a start on studying for next year. There’s Charms, Transfiguration, Defense, and Herbology. To tell the truth, Mrs. Weasley and I weren’t all that certain that you intended to continue on with Herbology, but we took a chance…oh, and I told her she might want to wait on Care of Magical Creatures, as I wasn’t sure you would want to continue with that class.” She looked a little ashamed at not thinking he’d jump at the chance to attend Hagrid’s class…not that she was wrong, Harry thought. “Astronomy…now, that was an option, though considering the lack of a high passing mark, I wondered if Professor Sinistra might—”

“Hermione!” Harry interrupted her thoughtful monologue, but he softened his voice at knowing she’d put so much thought into advising Mrs. Weasley on his class preferences. “Thanks, Hermione. I…I can’t wait to look at my books.”

Ron’s cough sounded suspiciously like a disguised snort, and Harry avoided his friend’s eyes lest he lose control of the earnest expression he had donned for Hermione’s benefit.

Hermione beamed. “You’re welcome, Harry!”

“Now that we’ve got that settled,” Ron said before Hermione could steer the conversation toward academics again, “we’re only allowed to visit until the Order meeting’s done, and we’ve lots to fill you in on.”

Finally! Harry leaned forward eagerly. “Is there more news on Voldemort? His Death Eaters? What is the Order doing to fight? Is the Ministry doing anything now?”

“They’re not doing enough, that’s for sure!” Hermione broke in heatedly.

“We don’t know a lot,” Ron said. “Just bits and pieces we’ve been able to overhear from conversations around my house. Sometimes it’s a right good thing it’s so small, really. That, and Fred and George are in the Order now, so they’re happy to drop hints, even if they’ve been warned against actually telling us anything.”

“Wait. So…Hermione’s been staying with your family, then?”

“Not all summer,” Hermione explained. “Just a day here and there. My parents haven’t seen me much the last couple summers, and after the school informed them of the growing threat with Voldemort, they were quite insistent we have more time as a family this year.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” Harry hadn’t given a great deal of thought to how the Muggle-born students’ families might be handling the coming war, especially as his own Muggle relatives didn’t really care one way or another if he lived or died. It must be scary, he realized, to know you’re in danger and not to truly be a part of the world that presents that danger. And then to know that at the end of summer, you’re sending your kid right back into that world…

Ron was already talking. “So anyway, we figure you probably didn’t hear about Azkaban.”

“Azkaban?” Harry jerked himself out of his meandering thoughts. _Lucius Malfoy._ “Was there a breakout?” He asked the question, already knowing the answer.

A nod.

“Why wasn’t it in the papers?” he demanded. He hadn’t put his hands on any newspapers since he’d been confined to Grimmauld Place, but he’d received a few issues of the _Quibbler_ and the _Daily Prophet_ at the Dursleys, and he hadn’t read any such thing. In fact, he hadn’t really read anything that pointed to Death Eater activity, just article on top of article about how it was a sure thing Voldemort was back and lists of how people needed to be safe and prepared for the coming war. But there was nothing actually _about_ the coming war. It was downright maddening.

“Oh, it was in the paper, alright,” Hermione gave an exasperated sigh, then tossed Harry a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , opened to the next to last page.

Harry scanned the page, then looked up, confused. “What does ‘single white witch looking for cat-loving wizard’ have to do with Azkaban?”

“The opposite side, Harry! Lower left corner. See? There. Small article on the bottom.”

Small was an understatement, Harry thought as he squinted to read the tiny lettering.

**_Wizarding Prison Undergoes Reconstruction_ **

_Azkaban, the wizarding world’s most secure prison, will be closed to visitors, including family members of prisoners, in the coming months, as security measures are scheduled to be revised and reconsidered in light of the upcoming war. “There is nothing to be concerned about. Absolutely nothing,” the Minister of Magic reassured the public in an exclusive interview with the_ Daily Prophet _. “The safety of the wizarding world is our topmost concern!”_

_Azkaban Prison is expected to reopen by the end of the year, under improved management and with vastly superior security measures._

Harry looked up from the brief article, confused. “That’s it? There’s nothing about a breakout in here. Not even a hint.”

“Precisely,” Hermione sniffed. “They can’t deny Voldemort’s returned, so now they’re covering up how bad it really is with reassurances about how safe we all are with the Ministry looking out for us!”

“Trying to avoid mass hysteria, is how my mum put it,” Ron put in, glancing sideways at Hermione.

“Yes, and that will only cause people to become complacent about the war.” Hermione added. “Revised security measures, my foot! The reason they need to be revised is that most of their prisoners have escaped under the current ones! And they need to keep visitors away so that no one finds out. It gives them time to try to round up the escapees quietly, see!”

“What do they mean by ‘improved management’?” Harry asked, re-reading the article.

Ron answered this one. “Dementors have left. All of ‘em, gone to join Voldemort. It’s how the escape happened in the first place.”

That made Harry’s blood boil. “Why didn’t they remove the dementors from Azkaban the minute they realized Voldemort was back?” he roared.

Fortunately, his friends weren’t shocked at his anger, as they looked about as angry with the Ministry as he was. Especially Hermione.

“Guess the Minister got a little sidetracked, what with trying to keep his job and all,” Ron answered dryly.

“That’s not all the news we have, Harry,” Hermione rushed past the topic of Azkaban as the sounds of movement came from downstairs. Apparently the Order didn’t intend to meet for very long today. “But we also wanted to know how you’re doing. Professor Dumbledore told Ron’s parents you would be staying here…with, um, Professor Snape.” She ended on a note of incredulity, though Harry guessed that seeing him come down the stairs earlier with Snape had convinced her it was actually true.

“Yeah,” Harry groused, not bothering to hide his dislike of the situation. “Just me and good ol’ Snape. And a million and one chores involving disgusting potions ingredients.”

Hermione put her hand on Harry’s arm in sympathy, though Ron was a little less subtle. “What is Dumbledore _thinking_? Snape _hates_ you! I’ll probably never see you alive _agai_ —”

“I’m sure the headmaster has your best interests in mind, Harry,” Hermione interrupted calmly, shooting Ron a glare. “Professor Snape _is_ in the Order, after all. And you’re way too important to the headmaster for him to leave you with someone who couldn’t properly protect you.”

“Yeah, but who’s gonna protect him from Sna— ow!” Ron rubbed his arm where Hermione had just swatted him.

“How—how are you doing with, um, everything else, Harry?” she asked hesitantly, leaving both hands within aiming distance of Ron.

It wasn’t hard for Harry to figure what she was getting at with the overly concerned look she was directing his way.

“I’m fine,” he answered immediately, following it up with an insistent, “Really. I’m fine, Hermione,” when she looked about ready to press him again. He really wasn’t in the mood to discuss his mourning for Sirius right then. Or ever, really. Rehashing things wouldn’t change how they’d played out.

“I…uh, I wanted to talk to you, though,” he segued, knowing it would make her forget all about Sirius for the time being, “about…about what Dumbledore told me at the end of the year. About the prophecy.”

Sure enough, both his friends sat up straight, waiting in attentive silence for him to continue.

He’d thought about this, too, during his stay at the Dursleys…mostly when trying to avoid thinking about Sirius. Dumbledore hadn’t outright said he couldn’t tell his friends about the prophecy, and somehow he didn’t think the headmaster would mind. Harry needed his friends, after all, and he couldn’t imagine going through an entire school year keeping something like this from them.

“Well, see…the prophecy that was destroyed in the Ministry…it was made to Dumbledore.”

Hermione released a long breath. “He told you the prophecy, Harry? Then…you know what it said?”

Harry nodded, and both of his friends waited with bated breath.

“The prophecy said…I’m going to have to kill Voldemort. Personally. Or he’s going to have to kill me.”

Both of his friends wore identical faces of shock.

“Harry...oh, Harry,” Hermione breathed. “How…how do know that? What did it say exactly?”

Harry quoted the prophecy, line for line, just how he’d played it through his mind countless times since Dumbledore had revealed it to him.

Silence covered the room, broken only by Ron’s muttered “Blimey.”

“Yeah,” answered Harry.

Unfortunately, what more they had to say on the topic would have to wait, for just then a knock sounded on Harry’s bedroom door, followed by Mrs. Weasley’s head poking into the room.

He no more heard a “Harry, dear!” than he was engulfed in Mrs. Weasley’s maternal hug. “How have you been?” She held him at arm’s length, not waiting for a reply before she clucked, “Too skinny, my dear, too skinny indeed. Well, we’ll have none of that. Come now, you three! The Order meeting is over, and we’ve plenty of food for the eating!”

With that, the three teenagers were ushered down the stairs and into the kitchen, where most of the Order was still milling about, some involved in serious conversations, some visiting jovially.

“Harry!” Fred called out, he and George coming across the room to greet him, followed soon by Remus, Tonks, and several other familiar faces.

Harry couldn’t help but let go of his serious mood, as the sights and sounds of happy and familiar people surrounded him. This, he thought well into the consumption of his dinner, and looking around at the smiling faces laughing with him…this is what summer should feel like.

But the dinner hour passed all too quickly, and before he knew it, he was saying his good-byes:

“Yes, Hermione, I promise to write.”

“Yes, I swear I’ll eat five meals a day, Mrs. Weasley!”

“Yes, Ron, you can have my broom if…you know…”

He thought better than to interrupt Hermione’s fresh round of Ron-scolding, and then before he knew it, he was alone.

But, somehow, having shared a part of his burden with his friends, he didn’t feel so alone just now.

He trudged back up to the potions laboratory, where he knew Snape would be waiting for him to finish cutting up the ginger roots. Only, this time as he approached his dreaded chore, he did so with a smile on his face.

Yeah, he wasn’t alone.

_Every now and then_ , he thought, _it was nice to be reminded_.


	14. Wanted: Occlumency Tutor

It was cold and damp, and the darkness was so palpable, he could feel it pressing in on him.

No matter how Harry tried to look around him, his eyes couldn’t see. He couldn’t remember how he’d come to be here, or even where _here_ was.

He shivered.

“It’s frightening, facing the unknown, isn’t it, Harry?” spoke a voice from the darkness beside him, and Harry jumped.

A wand tip illuminated the room, bringing his surroundings into focus. A glance around revealed that he was in a large enclosed room, surrounded on all sides by stone walls. It looked to be some sort of basement. Sitting beside him, with lit wand in hand, was…himself.

“I’m dreaming again,” Harry said, not asking this time.

“Yes,” replied Other Harry, “you are.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and though Harry knew it was a dream, he still felt cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, fighting off the chill. This dream, like the last, felt so real.

“Why did you show me Hogwarts and Hogsmeade like that?” He asked accusingly, giving in to a shudder, this time not merely from the cold. “I saw my friends last night. And now, I…those images of them gone... Why do that to me?”

Other Harry answered after a moment. “Why fight wars? Why battle evil or stand up for what is right? Someone has to, Harry, or evil will win. And sometimes you must know what the evil looks like…what it will do…before you can convince yourself the war is worth fighting.”

“I already know that it is.”

“Not all ways of fighting are as straightforward or as easy as pulling out a sword,” Other Harry replied.

“You mean like…strategy?”

Other Harry gave him a small smile, then looked away. “Not exactly. You’ll know what I mean. When you are ready.”

Harry didn’t feel like arguing. “Where are we now? Another future?”

Other Harry waved an arm in silent invitation to explore.

Harry walked around the cold stone room. It was a basement, he confirmed by the stairs leading to the only door out. But he hadn’t finished his exploration when he heard the faint sound of someone breathing.

They weren’t alone.

The still, half-dressed form of an apparent prisoner lay on his back in the far corner. Harry’s pulse quickened as he bent over the prisoner, turned the head so that he could look at the face…and tripped backward in his haste to get away.

“It’s me!” he gasped, stumbling as far away as possible from his own alive, but nonetheless lifeless eyes staring back at him. “Is—” he tried hard to breathe. “Is this my future?” Breathe. “Is this what will happen to me if…or when…I fail?”

He leaned into the wall, in the spot he had occupied earlier.

Other Harry sighed next to him. “Seeing the future is a tricky thing. Some futures cannot be changed. Others are mere possibilities. Hogwarts, Hogsmeade…that was a possibility.”

“And this?” Harry asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“This will happen.”

Harry swallowed several times before he could speak. “Is it Voldemort? Is he the one who put him… _me_ here? Did he finally get the blood he wanted?”

A slight nod was his answer.

Harry closed his eyes against his racing thoughts. “Am…am I dead? _That_ me, I mean…is he…dead?”

“No. Not yet.”

Harry shivered, not knowing this time if it was from the cold or not. “I’m going to die, then. Is that it? This is where I die, giving my blood for Voldemort’s strength so that he can go on to murder everyone in my life that I love.”

“If you die here, in this room, as Voldemort’s prisoner, the future I showed you before will cease to be a possibility; it will become a certainty.”

Harry drew a shaky breath before latching onto the one word of hope. “If? Then I could still escape? I might live? _They_ might live?”

“Have you asked Dumbledore about the other prophecy?” Other Harry asked, shifting the conversation.

Harry shook his head, focusing his eyes on the stone floor.

“Why not?”

He’d been so preoccupied since that last night with the Dursleys, he’d barely given it a second thought. But he knew that wasn’t the real reason. “You’re not real.” There. Saying it out loud eased his breathing. “You seem so real, it’s easy to forget while I’m here, but…you’re only a dream. It…you can’t be real.”

Other Harry scrutinized him. “You require proof?”

“Yes.”

“Not every truth in life will present you with incontrovertible proof, Harry. Sometimes you must simply trust.”

“Maybe so, but not everything that looks or feels real is real,” Harry countered. “I _believed_ that Voldemort’s false vision was real, and look where that got Sirius. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Other Harry’s voice was soft. “You have learned a difficult lesson… Yes, you are right to question me.” He reached into a pocket and drew out something small, holding it out to offer it to Harry.

Harry took the object, recognizing it as the snitch from his other dream. Like once before, as Harry watched, colors swirled within the golden ball until a face appeared, though it wasn’t Dumbledore this time; it was Snape. The pale, dark haired man stared out of the snitch to a point over Harry’s shoulder, his face twisted into his trademark sneer. “I’d prefer moldy cabbages boiled in beetle stew.” Snape brushed his hair away from his face and crossed his arms before the image faded, presenting Harry with a plain golden snitch once more.

Other Harry took back the snitch and spoke again, as if there had been no odd interruption. “Trust is a tricky thing, Harry. Much like seeing the future. Sometimes you already have all the evidence you need to use it…or to change it.”

“Are you trying to tell me to trust Snape?”

Other Harry looked amused, for once. “You forget I am a part of you, Harry. Telling you to trust someone whom you claim to hate is something I would not presume to do.”

“Good. At least I agree with myself on that.”

“You rely heavily on your instincts. All I offer is the notion that even great instincts such as yours can be fallible if not based on correct—and complete—information.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, okay…yeah, I can agree with that.” He didn’t need to look any further than the events leading up to Sirius’ death to see the truth in that statement.

“Good. You’ll see me again.”

“When?” But when Harry turned to ask his question, the room went dark. His other self was gone, his lit wand along with him.

Harry was alone again in a dream from which he had no idea how to wake. He closed and opened his eyes, pinched himself, thought of waking…all to no avail. And so he leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds of his prisoner self breathing steadily from across the room.

At least he wasn’t the sole survivor on a battlefield this time. By comparison, the darkness he could handle. He’d grown used to the dark: the spiders, the loneliness, the unknown ‘monsters’ lurking in his cupboard. Sometimes the darkness was even comforting.

Sometimes, however, it forced his mind to wander to things better left ignored, things he’d pushed to the back of his mind for fear he’d have no choice but to lose himself in thoughts of them...

Like his parents. And Cedric. And the very real images of what might happen to his friends if he failed. If he died in this basement.

But mostly…mostly thoughts of Sirius.

Here, in the dark, he couldn’t run from his sorrow at the loss of his godfather. His mind wouldn’t let him push it aside any longer, and the darkness provided the perfect cover for his silent tears to begin to fall. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry before, but now…it felt good.

“Sirius,” he whispered. “You were supposed to stay. You were supposed to be there for me. Why did you go?”

His tears turned to sobs.

“Why?” he demanded, anger joining his sorrow, “If you were here, I’d know what to d—do!” He was finding it hard to speak through his worsening sobs, so he stopped speaking, pouring himself into his tears of loss. It wouldn’t bring Sirius back; he knew that. It’s what had stopped him from crying before—well, that and deciding that at sixteen he was too old for tears.

But here, in the dark, in his dream...he thought maybe it was alright to cry. Just this once.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, sobs wracking his body, before he felt another presence. A hand rested on his shoulder.

He lifted his head in the darkness.

“Sirius?” Sirius was gone; he knew it. But this was a dream, not reality. Maybe Sirius could come to him in a dream…?

“Black is dead, Potter.”

Harry frowned through his sniffles. That wasn’t Sirius. It wasn’t Other Harry, either.

He looked around, trying to see through the darkness. The smell of the damp, stone basement was the only thing to meet his senses…and it was mixed with another scent, a scent he recognized from before. It was the scent of blood. He couldn’t see, but he knew another version of himself still lay in the far corner…not dead, but not quite alive. Waiting to give up more of his blood for Voldemort’s rising power.

He concentrated on breathing past his fear, his sobs giving way to an occasional shudder.

He felt the hand leave his shoulder, and the air around him shifted. His comforter was leaving.

Harry reached out blindly in the darkness. “Wait! Don’t leave me in here!” He swallowed his panic. It was like before, when he hadn’t been able to escape the battlefield. This…this wasn’t as bad, but still. The thought of being trapped forever all alone in this dark room, only his own nearly dead self for company, with no idea how to escape…

“In where, Potter?”

He recoiled. The voice was harsh; it didn’t like him. His breathing quickened.

The presence moved closer. It spoke again, softer than before, “In where? Where are you…Harry?”

Harry flinched as he felt the hand touch his shoulder again. It stayed, though, lightly…comfortingly.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

“I won’t go,” the presence promised, waiting a few seconds before again asking softly, “Where are you?”

“The—the basement. Can’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

Harry shuddered again. “It’s cold in here.”

The presence didn’t say anything for a few moments, and though the hand never left his shoulder, Harry felt something shift in the air around him. He felt warmer, though he couldn’t have explained why.

“What do you smell, P— Harry?”

“Dirt, mold…blood.” He felt his nose wrinkle his distaste.

“Blood? Whose blood?”

Harry shivered again, despite being warm. “His…I mean, mine. Voldemort’s taken it; he’s coming to take more.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened, though it didn’t hurt. “How did you get to the basement, Harry?”

“I…I don’t know. It’s a dream. I think it’s the future. But it won’t let me go…” He frowned. It didn’t quite make sense when he said it like that. He forgot about it though, as the hand tightened again, this time too tight. It let up at Harry’s wince.

“What won’t let you go?”

Harry froze, and his heart started to pound. There was a sound within his dream…like someone was coming to the door to the basement. Sure enough, a moment later, the door to the basement opened and he shielded his eyes as light flooded the room.

He watched as a cloaked and masked figure descended the steps to the basement and turned toward the still prisoner.

“Potter?” A voice called to him, shaking him slightly, but as Harry looked on either side of him in the basement, he couldn’t see the presence he had been talking to. He brushed off the invisible hands, intent on finding out why the Death Eater was here.

A moment later, he wished he hadn’t watched, as the Death Eater waved a wand over the still form, and Harry saw a large vial in the man’s hands fill with red liquid.

“Blood,” he whispered. “He’s taking more of my blood.”

“Potter. You’re dreaming. Wake up.” The voice was stern, and Harry couldn’t be sure, but he thought there might be an edge of panic to it. But it was calling him Potter again…in that voice that meant it didn’t like him.

“It won’t let me go,” he repeated, backing away from the presence outside his dream, but then it spoke to him softly again, in a voice that made Harry feel calm.

“Harry, you need to tell me what won’t let you go.”

“The dream. The dream won’t let me go.” He lowered his head as the cloaked figure within his dream climbed the stairs and turned off the lights to leave him once more in darkness. “Please,” Harry whispered. “Can you make it let go?”

Harry heard a rustling in the darkness, and a sound like a door closing from far away, followed by a whoosh of air nearby.

Harry flinched away as he felt a hand touch his chin.

“Open your mouth,” spoke the presence. “I have a potion. It will help you to escape from your dream.”

Harry opened his mouth obediently, swallowing the potion given to him by the invisible hands. Hmm…it was a familiar taste, one he’d had before. As he tried to remember what it was called, he barely noticed as another darkness enveloped him, leading him away from the cold, damp blackness of the basement. But this darkness was okay…it was peaceful…

It was the darkness of dreamless sleep.

And this time, he was unaware when the presence removed its hand from his shoulder. Or when it paused to scan his sleeping form before quietly retreating into the hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

* * *

Harry woke up feeling better rested than he’d been in a good long while. So rested, in fact, that until he opened his eyes completely, he’d thought that maybe he was in his bed back at Hogwarts.

He yawned, lazily stretching. This wasn’t so bad, he thought. Having a lie-in was always a nice feeling, even if he wasn’t in Gryffindor Tower.

Harry’s eyes popped open all the way. _A lie-in?_

He hurriedly threw off his bed covers, swinging his feet over to land on the floor. Sure enough, the light streaming in through his bedroom window testified to the fact that it was at least mid-morning, if not later.

His only thought as he scrambled out of his nightclothes and into a shirt and pair of jeans was about how angry Snape was going to be.

The professor had already been in a foul mood the night before, which had worsened after one of his potions had failed to reach an exact “milky white” consistency. But he’d been downright murderous after determining Harry’s miss-sorting of a puffer-fish eye into the tail pile as the reason for the less than perfect brew.

He’d ordered Harry in no uncertain terms to be in the lab at the break of dawn, as he would be brewing the replacement potion until he got it right.

Well, it was well past dawn, and Harry wasn’t about to chance even the extra few minutes it would take to fill his empty stomach. Running his fingers haphazardly through his hair, he bolted out of his bedroom and to the lab, pausing only a moment to catch his breath before stepping cautiously into the room.

But he needn’t have bothered to be so cautious: Snape wasn’t there.

Looking around carefully to be sure he hadn’t overlooked the professor behind some cauldrons, he shifted from one foot to the other, not sure what to do now. Should he get started on the potion or wait for Snape? Just looking around didn’t seem like such a good idea, what with how angry the man had been the other night after catching Harry outside the drawing room…

Coming to a decision, Harry left the potions lab in search of the professor. Since he’d started working in the lab, he hadn’t been outright told he couldn’t be there without Snape present, but accidentally blowing something up wasn’t exactly the way he wanted to find out about that rule.

A thorough search of the hallway and drawing room later, he discovered the object of his quest sitting quite calmly at the kitchen table, an array of books, quills, and parchment spread out in front of him. All were stacked and lined up neatly, much like Snape’s potions ingredients in his lab. Harry wondered if the structured man even knew how to let things get a little messy from time to time.

Harry cleared his throat to announce his presence.

The man continued leafing through a large book, and Harry was actually contemplating speech when Snape said without looking up, “One might assume that had you not barged loudly into the kitchen, your deafening footfalls would be sufficient to alert me to your presence.”

Harry sighed inwardly. So it was going to be one of _those_ days. Not that he expected anything other than insults from Snape…but sometimes over the past couple days, Snape had managed not to say much of anything to him beyond potions preparation instructions. Those were Harry’s favorite times.

“If you insist on standing in the doorway all day,” Snape continued, giving him a pointed glare, “be my guest. It will be considerably more difficult, however, for you to complete your day’s assignment standing up.”

Harry sat across from Snape without speaking, a little worried about what the “day’s assignment” might be and how it involved not being in the potions laboratory. Surely Snape hadn’t changed his mind about having Harry brew that potion? Or…he felt a little worried at this thought…was the change in assignment something worse, some punishment because of his having overslept and not shown up on time?

“Dobby!” Snape’s call rang out, making Harry more nervous by not getting right to the point of his punishment. Snape’s only comment to the materialized house-elf was, “Mr. Potter will require breakfast. See to it.”

It was good to hear that he’d be able to fill his hungry stomach after all, but Harry didn’t feel very relieved. If anything, he felt his stomach knotting up. Why wouldn’t Snape just get to telling him what he’d have to do?

But Snape wasn’t cooperating with Harry’s wishes. He continued leafing through his book and making notes on parchment while Dobby delivered his food and left Harry to eat. The silence was nerve-wracking, and by the time he was finished with his food, he actually felt a little ill.

He pushed his near-empty plate aside, and it immediately vanished from the table.

He only had to wait another moment before Snape set aside his quill to give Harry his undivided attention. However, when that attention involved simply studying him for several long moments without speaking, Harry couldn’t help but feel distinctly uncomfortable.

And then, as if he wasn’t uncomfortable enough, he all at once recognized that light in Snape’s eyes. He hadn’t seen it in a few days, not since they’d been at the Dursleys last week. The “I have a puzzle to figure out” face was back, and it was directed once more at Harry. He’d hoped never to see that face again, but at least the other times he’d known what had brought it on. This time he was at a loss to figure out what he might have done to trigger Snape’s odd interest. He squirmed in his seat.

That at least served the purpose of bringing Snape back from whatever thoughts he’d been caught up in. “Have you had visions of the Dark Lord since summer began?” the professor asked crisply. Apparently the man wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

Harry blinked. Visions? He was too surprised at the question to come up with a way to dodge it. “Uh…yeah, I guess so.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “You ‘guess’ so, Potter?” His voice grew quieter, which was almost never a good sign. “You mean to say that you have been seeing into the Dark Lord’s mind and you haven’t thought to inform the headmaster?”

“Erm…” Harry tensed at the sneaking suspicion that he was about to be in an awful lot of trouble. Snape didn’t look angry, though…just calculating. Still, that didn’t put Harry at ease.

“Did you have a vision last night?” Snape asked intently.

Harry furrowed his brow as bits of a dream rushed back to him. A basement, so cold, seeing himself lying there, helplessly allowing some Death Eater to take his blood.... Harry wrapped his arms around himself as he shivered. “Um, no. I mean, I dreamed, but it wasn’t from him…” He knew that, at least—his scar hadn’t hurt last night, not even a little bit. Another thought occurred to him. He looked up warily. “You didn’t, um, hear me or anything? I mean, I didn’t…?”

Snape ignored the question. “And several nights ago—at your relatives’ home—was that a vision?”

Harry flushed and ducked his head. “No. That was a regular, um…dream.” At Snape’s narrowed gaze, he amended, “okay, _nightmare_.”

“How often, then?”

“How often do I have nightmares?” Harry asked guardedly, not wanting to admit that answer to Snape, of all people.

“No. How often have you had visions from the Dark Lord?”

“Oh. Only a couple times,” Harry insisted, “and it hasn’t been anything important—”

“You have no idea what is important, you foolish boy.” Snape cut in, still speaking calmly, though Harry heard the underlying danger in the man’s voice. Without further comment, Snape reached for a book sitting to the side. He handed it to Harry, watching him closely.

Harry accepted the thick tome, scanning over the title. _Guarding the Mind: A Beginner’s Guide to Occlumency_ , by Josepia Prynne.

Occlumency.

Harry hadn’t thought before that his stomach could be any more upset; he was wrong. He looked up slowly, warily, praying that this didn’t mean what he knew it might mean. Dumbledore had promised Snape wouldn’t be made to teach Harry…right? And there was no way Snape would offer. Oh, Merlin…Harry sure hoped there was no way Snape would offer.

Still, watching Snape suspiciously, Harry felt like he was waiting for his own death sentence to be determined.

Snape studied him for another moment, then explained, “The headmaster has decided that it is in your best interest to resume the study of Occlumency. You will read this book,” Snape continued evenly, “until you have read every sentence on every page in every chapter. You will do nothing but read until you have completed the book. And each night before you sleep, you will practice the techniques outlined in this book. Do you understand?”

Harry met Snape’s eyes and nodded, not sure how else to respond. He couldn’t even identify the emotion running through him right then…was it trepidation? Anger? How dare Dumbledore even _consider_ letting Snape teach him again?

“The headmaster would ‘consider letting me teach you again,’ as I am an expert in the fields of Occlumency and Legilimency,” Snape taunted, “a talent which you have apparently still yet to begin to grasp.”

Harry looked away from the Legilimen’s eyes. His face felt so hot at his thoughts having been read, he was sure he must be completely red. “Yes, sir,” he muttered out of embarrassment rather than out of any show of respect.

“However, your blatant distaste for a resumed tutoring relationship between the two of us is not unshared, I may assure you,” Snape sneered, “which is why we will not be entering into such an arrangement.”

Harry looked up hopefully before again averting his eyes.

“Professor Dumbledore and I have come to an agreement. You will read. You will practice. I will make certain that you read and that you practice. _He_ will be overseeing your practical Occlumency tutelage.”

Harry let out a breath and felt his whole body relax. He didn’t even care if Snape saw how relieved he was. “I’ll have lessons with him, then? Here? Or at school? When? And how often?”

Snape gave him a long, expressionless stare before commenting, “You have an annoying habit of asking too many questions, Potter.”

Harry blinked. As insults went, that one was Snape-light. Maybe the man was losing his touch. He hadn’t even commented on the minuscule size of Harry’s brain.

To Harry’s further surprise, Snape went on to actually answer his questions—without sarcasm, even. “The headmaster will be arriving tonight to discuss your lessons with you. Before you ask at what time, allow me to tell you that I do not know. He will come after he has taken care of a few other matters of importance. He has a very demanding schedule, and you will therefore be required to be prepared for lessons at his convenience, most times with little notice, I would expect. It is due to his intermittent availability that he has assigned this book as preparatory reading.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could manage. He was mentally running through Snape’s speech for some hidden insult. He couldn’t find one, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

“One more thing, Potter,” Snape went on, “As soon as the headmaster arrives, you will relate to both of us—in detail—the visions you have had thus far. _And_ you will relate any future visions to me immediately upon waking. Do you understand?”

Snape waited for Harry to nod his agreement before issuing a crisp, “now read,” indicating he was through with talking. He turned back to his own book.

Harry paused, hand poised to open the Occlumency text. He would probably berate himself for this later, but… “What about the potion you told me to brew? I thought…I mean, you said…”

Snape looked up from his work, his lips twisted into a familiar sneer. “You seem to be under the continuing assumption that I am incapable of remembering my own words, Potter. Allow me to assure you: in direct contrast to your own mental capabilities, mine are of adequate size and fully intact. Now read.” He ignored Harry’s glare, returning to his own work.

And as Harry opened the thick tome to the first chapter, he at least knew all was right with the world: Snape hadn’t lost his insulting touch, after all.


	15. An Experiment in Civility

_The true study of Occlumency is a lifelong process, a skill to which only the most attuned to the mental arts may aspire. The degree of mental discipline required to master the art of Occlumency has rendered the study among the most difficult…_

Harry slumped in his chair. If Dumbledore thought this book would prepare him, he would be sorely disappointed. All the book had served to do so far was to discourage Harry further. It made learning Occlumency sound so _hard_.

Harry sneaked a glance at Snape through his lowered lashes. The man had been leafing through various books and writing notes on parchment for more than an hour. Harry tried to sit up straight enough to get a glimpse of what he was writing, but he couldn’t quite manage. Having failed, he slumped back down in his chair.

One result of reading this book was that his thoughts had continually been brought back to the most skilled Occlumens he knew. The man wasn’t just moderately skilled: to fool Voldemort for so many years—or, for that matter, to maybe still be fooling Dumbledore—he had to be an expert. Hmm. Was there such a thing as an Occlumency master, like there was a Potions master? And knowing that Snape had originally applied to be the DADA teacher, was he a master at that as well? Was there anything that Snape _wasn’t_ a master at?

Other than interpersonal relationships, of course.

Harry almost snickered, but he managed to keep his silence. All he needed was for Snape to exercise his Mastery at Insulting Harry Potter. That was perhaps his best mastery of all.

Harry refocused his eyes on the page and tried to read the next paragraph… _tried_ being the key word. But it was all about the different levels at which one could learn Occlumency, and Harry once again found his attention waning. Why couldn’t someone just explain this to him in easy to understand language? Why must it either be by forceful attacks on his mind or through a boring, discouraging giant of a book?

He flipped back to the Table of Contents, hoping to see some more interesting chapters coming up, but instead of reading the actual titles, all he saw was the sheer number of them. It would take him an entire week to even make a dent in this thing!

He again found his eyes drawn up to study Snape. The professor was so skilled; if Harry had liked him, he might have found himself able to admire that skill. But even if he couldn’t bring himself to actually admire anything about the man, he was growing steadily more curious. Just how had Snape come to be an expert at Occlumency? He couldn’t have been born knowing it. Had he taken up the study himself? Or been forced into a tutoring situation like Harry? If Harry could figure out how the most skilled Occlumens of his acquaintance had learned it, maybe he’d have a chance at actually learning it for himself this time…and maybe without the grueling task of reading one of the thickest books ever written.

A second was all he needed to come to a snap decision. Snape hadn’t been more horrible than usual the last few days, after all. In fact, he hadn’t even been that bad, all things considered. One question wasn’t going to end Harry’s life as he knew it. So before he could take another second to rethink, he cleared his throat and asked in a carefully respectful tone, “Er…professor? How did you, um, learn Occlumency?”

Snape’s hand stilled, then continued to complete the line he was writing. A final flourish of the quill, and he brought his narrowed eyes up to survey Harry. “Using conversation as a distraction will only serve to delay your reading, not replace it, Potter. Continue. In silence,” he added, a warning to his tone, as he returned to his writing.

Harry shrugged. Well, that wasn’t so bad. He didn’t get what he wanted to know, but his head was still attached to his body. In fact, it was enough of a victory to give him the courage to try again.

“The book says that Occlumency must be learned…sir. I thought maybe if I knew how you learned it, that might help me figure out how I should go about it.”

Snape looked up at him right away this time, with the same narrowed eyes. “Pardon me, Potter. Allow me to understand. You disregarded my instruction last year, blatantly argued with me at every turn, deliberately trespassed into memories you were forbidden to enter,” Snape’s tone was growing dangerously low, “and you have now decided to ask for my _advice_?”

Harry sank into his chair.

“I am not your tutor any longer, thank Merlin. I am only here to ensure that you read. That. Book. Now _read_.”

Harry sighed and refocused his attention on the book. Okay, so that hadn’t been the brightest of ideas. Even though the man hadn’t thrown potions ingredients at him this time, reminding him of Harry’s intrusion into his memories wasn’t exactly the best way to get him to play nice. Harry nearly laughed at the workings of his own mind. Nice? When had Snape ever been even _civil_ toward him?

Actually…

Harry sat up straight again. He distinctly remembered one instance when he and Snape had carried on a decent conversation. It seemed surreal, looking back on that night at the Dursleys, that the two of them could actually have talked at length without a murder being committed. But still…it _had_ happened. And Harry had learned an awful lot of information, too.

If only Harry was sure he could be Slytherin enough to make it happen again. Okay, well…maybe he wasn’t as good at manipulating circumstances as Snape was. And he didn’t even know if he had enough information that Snape would want from him in return, but…he could try, couldn’t he?

He placed the book square on the table, propping his elbows on its open pages, and steepled his fingers as he had seen Snape do sometimes. Then, in his best imitation of a calm, calculating tone, he commented cooly, “You want to know what You-Know-Who was thinking when you escaped, don’t you?”

Snape brought his head up sharply. “What?” he barked.

Harry tried not to falter. “You want to know what You-Know-Who was thinking when you escaped,” he repeated, a little faster than he was going for.

Snape was livid. “What are you playing at, Potter?” 

Harry was starting to regret his snap decision. He took a breath, trying not to let Snape see how shaky it was, before plunging ahead with his plan. Might as well, right? It wasn’t like he could back down now.

“An exchange of information. Um, a question for a question, let’s say.” Harry gulped, then rushed on, “You answer mine, I’ll answer yours.”

Snape stared at him. That’s all, just stared. Harry did his best not to squirm under that intense gaze. And he tried to hold eye contact, even though he was a little worried about the wisdom of that plan, as the man knew Legilimency and all… But he couldn’t back down. He _wouldn’t_ back down.

Snape deliberately placed his quill on the table, not breaking eye contact, then copied Harry’s imitation of his own posture by propping his elbows and steepling his own fingers.

Harry gulped again. He didn’t have a clue what Snape was thinking. The man had carefully wiped all trace of emotion from his face, including anger. Maybe this was his revenge: torturing Harry by keeping him in suspense.

Snape finally spoke, his voice slightly mocking, “Mr. Potter. As tempting as your…offer…is, you are forgetting two rather salient points. Firstly, I am well acquainted with the Dark Lord and his present opinion of me. I do believe I can wager a fairly decent guess at what he was thinking when I defected. And secondly, even if that were not the case, it is hardly a decent bargaining chip. You have already agreed to relay your visions for both the headmaster and me this evening. You do not have a choice in the matter.”

Harry thought fast. “Then I bet you’d be interested in who he thinks of as his most trusted servant.”

“More information I shall gladly ensure that you tell the headmaster this evening.”

Harry dropped his arms, exasperated. “Well, there must be something you want to know! You sure enjoyed asking your questions a week ago!”

“What interests me, Potter, is why you are so willing to take a chance at giving me free rein of questions, only to find out how I acquired a common wizarding skill.”

Harry nearly scoffed at the idea that it was “common.” It wasn’t common, by Merlin, it was hard! But Snape’s question brought him up short. What _was_ he thinking? The questions Snape had asked before at the Dursleys weren’t near as bad as they could have been; Harry knew that. So why open himself up to potentially worse questioning just to ask a stupid little question that might not even help Harry learn Occlumency anyway?

The more he thought about it, the less it seemed like a bright idea…and yet the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to get Snape to agree to it. Smart or no, what started as a whim was now a determination. For some reason he didn’t even want to analyze, he really wanted to see if that one conversation with Snape was a fluke…or if they could have _two_ decent conversations in their lifetimes.

Harry met Snape’s eyes, mind made up. “What interests me, professor,” he began, putting just the right amount of confidence into his words, “is if you think the agreement so skewed in your favor, why you’re not just being a Slytherin and taking advantage of it.”

Snape’s eyebrows raised a fraction, and his lips twitched nearly imperceptibly. “Very well, Potter. Same terms, I presume?”

Harry blinked. That was it? He had won? “Um, yeah. Same terms. I ask until it’s answered to my, er…satisfaction, and then it’s your turn.”

Snape motioned for Harry to begin before leaning back to cross his arms, his face carefully neutral.

Harry cleared his throat. “Okay, well, how did you learn Occlumency?”

“My mother taught me the foundational principles when I was young. I honed my skills at Hogwarts through personal research and study.”

“Your mother was an Occlumens?” he asked, surprised. Snape issued a brief nod. It wasn’t really what he’d been expecting to hear. And the image of Snape having a mother…it was weird. Well, he had to come from somewhere, Harry supposed. He couldn’t have crawled out from under a rock, even if that theory did sound more likely.

“Is that the extent of your first question?” asked Snape at his silence.

Harry shook his head automatically. He didn’t have another question prepared, but he couldn’t waste any opportunity to ask for clarification he might wish he’d asked later. “Um…” he bit his lip, thinking hard. “How young were you when she started teaching you?”

“Looking back, I imagine she must have begun teaching me around the age of three. Of course, I did not realize that at the time. Actual lessons began when I was closer to the age of nine.” Snape gave him a look, which Harry could only describe as long-suffering. Harry wasn’t a Legilimens, but he knew Snape was generally wondering when Harry would start to ask questions that actually mattered.

Well… “So how did she teach you, then?”

Snape took a moment to respond. “She…taught me to focus my mind on specific images before I slept. By the time we started lessons, I had a firm grasp on how to direct my own thoughts. It was then a matter of learning to deflect them from external attacks.”

“So she taught you by attacking your mind, then? Like you did with me?”

Snape took on a defensive, lecturing tone. “Deflecting attacks on one’s mind is the only way by which to be prepared for an attack from the enemy, Potter. Do _not_ try to blame your lack of learning on my methods of teaching.”

“Right. Because the two couldn’t possibly be related,” Harry groused. Before Snape could act on the murderous glare he had just thrown his way, Harry held up his hands in a symbol of surrender. “All I’m saying is you had six _years_ to prepare your mind for attacks! I had, what, six _seconds_?”

Snape kept up his glare, but at least he didn’t act on it. “Are you quite finished with your first question?” he bit out instead.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Harry slouched back in his seat, bracing himself for Snape’s turn.

“Why did you and your friends prepare Polyjuice Potion during your second year at Hogwarts?”

Harry snapped his head up and quickly averted his eyes. “W—what do you—”

“Don’t bother denying it, Potter. I know that you and Granger stole the boomslang skin from my office, and I know that you wanted it to brew Polyjuice Potion. What I do not know, to this day, is why you wanted that potion and whom you used it to imitate.”

Harry felt his neck get hot. “That’s not a fair question! You can’t ask me to say something that could incriminate somebody else!”

“Too late, Potter. Same rules as last time, remember. And _that_ was not a rule. As I have already answered yours, you are obligated to answer mine.” Snape looked positively smug, so smug that Harry wished he was allowed to use magic to permanently erase the smugness right off of his face.

Harry settled on glaring. What would happen if he refused to answer? Well, he’d known what he was getting himself into, hadn’t he? And he had still instigated it. He gave a disgruntled huff. “There’s some kind of rule, right? About points? Teachers can’t take off points for things that happened in a different school year…right?”

Snape’s smirk grew. “No, Potter, we cannot. At least…not officially,” he added, an evil glint to his eyes. “Not to worry, however. You always manage to find new ways for me to take points. I do think you’ll find yourself lacking in that area regardless of your admissions today.”

“Gee, thanks,” Harry muttered. “Okay, fine. You win. The whole Chamber of Secrets thing was going on that year, remember?”

Snape cocked his head, his raised brows implying an ‘of course I remember, you dunderhead’ without him having to voice the words…for which Harry was minutely thankful.

“Okay, you remember. So…there were rumors flying around about the heir of Slytherin, and well…I thought it was Malfoy.”

“Draco Malfoy?” Snape scoffed.

Harry defended himself quickly, “Yeah, well, he’s as Slytherin as they come, isn’t he? And he comes from a long line of pure-bloods. Why _couldn’t_ he have been descended from Salazar Slytherin?”

Snape quirked one brow, which Harry might have thought out of place on the professor’s face if it wasn’t apparently Snape’s way of saying that Harry was an idiot.

“Like I knew!” Harry automatically defended himself. “I grew up with the Dursleys, remember? I didn’t even know I was a wizard until I got my Hogwarts letter. How was I supposed to know the whole histories of all the pure-blood wizarding families?”

Snape still shook his head at Harry’s idiocy, but he silently motioned for him to continue.

“So…” Harry took a deep breath. Never in a million years would he ever have thought he’d be admitting any of his rule breaking adventures to _Snape_. “So Ron and I used the Polyjuice to look like Crabbe and Goyle so we could get a confession out of Malfoy.”

There. He’d said it. Quickly, but he’d said it. He watched Snape warily for a reaction.

“Ah. So you decided to stay within your own cerebral range. Surprisingly sensible of you.”

Harry would have been more offended by the insult if Snape hadn’t just told him what he thought of two of his own Slytherins. Plus, he hadn’t jumped right into a lecture. Harry let out a breath.

“And what did you find out?” Snape asked the question as though he were inquiring about the weather.

Harry narrowed his eyes. He got the feeling that Snape was enjoying this. “We found out he didn’t know who the heir was any more than we did.”

“Pity. You know, Potter, if you had just asked a vast majority of the student population, they’d have told you that _you_ were Slytherin’s heir.”

“Yeah, I know…the parseltongue and all.”

“Yes, your little…gift. I do recall quite a few whispered speculations that you had mistakenly been sorted into Gryffindor. Noble hearts never did set snakes to attack their Muggle-born classmates, after all, hmm, Potter?”

“I didn’t set that snake on Justin Finch-Fletchley; I was trying to call it off! And as for sorting, the hat did get it right! Dumbledore said we’re defined by our choices. Well, I chose Gryffindor. The hat wouldn’t have put me there if it didn’t fit!” He stopped short of yelling.

“My, my. An impassioned plea if ever I heard one. It nearly brought tears to my eyes.”

Harry crossed his arms. He had to stop himself from pouting like a little kid. He really, really wanted to, though. Snape was being a right git. “Does that conclude your questions, _sir_?”

“Not quite. One more clarification, as it relates to your previous answer. You implied that the Sorting Hat gave you a choice.”

“Um…oh.” Oops.

“What choice, precisely?”

Harry stared. “It sorted me into Gryffindor, like I said. You were there; you heard it.”

Snape raised his chin into the air until he was looking down his nose at Harry. “What choice, Potter?”

Scowling, Harry reluctantly admitted, “It, erm…kind of wanted to put me in Slytherin.” He closed his eyes at the thought of Snape spreading it around Hogwarts, along with everything else he had learned. Well, Harry could deal with it. He’d dealt with loads of other times people had thought badly of him. “It said I’d do well in Slytherin, but when I didn’t want Slytherin, it right away put me in Gryffindor,” Harry rushed to say, “because that fit me, too.”

“Yes. So you said a few moments ago,” Snape pointed out, looking at Harry shrewdly. Harry squirmed under Snape’s unreadable gaze.

“That concludes my line of questioning, Potter. Do you wish to continue? Or have you had quite enough?”

Harry’s better judgment didn’t seem to be operating at full capacity, for he couldn’t bring himself to call an end to it. There was one more thing he really wanted to know…only, if he asked outright what Snape had been doing talking to Lucius Malfoy, Snape would know Harry had been listening. So he started with a more general question.

“How well do you know the Malfoys?”

Snape’s eyes glinted. “Well,” he answered shortly.

“Um…okay. Maybe you could expand…”

“Do we need to discuss the rule regarding general questions, Mr. Potter?”

Harry held out his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Just give me an abridged history. That’s all.”

Snape leaned back completely into his chair and said after a moment, “I met Lucius and Narcissa during my first year at Hogwarts. They were both older students, and thus not in my immediate circle of acquaintances. After Hogwarts, we became…close.”

“Close?”

“Allies would be an appropriate term for the history of my…relationship with the Malfoys.”

“So you knew Malfoy before Hogwarts? Draco, I mean.”

Snape inclined his head. “Technically, he is my godson.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wow. So you _are_ pretty close, then.” He wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “Wouldn’t that make you more of friends with the Malfoys? Or family, even? _Allies_ sounds so formal.”

Snape gave him another long-suffering look. “For all that you claim to have a speck of Slytherin in that head of yours, you really do think far too much like a Gryffindor.”

“Thank you,” Harry smartly replied.

Snape ignored that. “Lucius Malfoy is nothing if not self-serving and cunning to his own ends. I had great potential in the Dark Lord’s ranks. I was, in fact, rising more quickly in his esteem than many who had been with him for years. Lucius and I may have a…history, but naming me as godfather to his son was not sentimental; it was strategic.”

“Oh.” It did sound Slytherin when he said it like that. Harry knew his own parents had named Sirius as his godfather because he was their closest friend, and Harry also knew that Sirius had loved him. The idea that Malfoy had a godfather so that his father could forge a strategic alliance sounded so cold.

Harry felt a slight churning in his stomach as his thoughts veered into an unsettling realization. Draco Malfoy had everything Harry had ever lost: home, parents, godfather. Even if his father was a Death Eater and his godfather a “strategic” choice, a traitor even…he still had them. Harry didn’t. In an ideal world, wasn’t love supposed to be the stronger foundation? And yet, Harry’s foundation had been ripped from him while Malfoy’s stood firm.

Harry felt a sudden urge to throw something. Hard.

He was jolted from his anger by the sound of Snape clearing his throat. Harry clenched his jaw against his churning emotions and tried to think quickly of how else he could get information on Lucius.

But he kept coming back to the same thought… Was Snape Draco’s Sirius?

Try as he might, he couldn’t erase the waves of resentment he felt at the thought of his two greatest Hogwarts enemies enjoying the relationship that he himself had lost. He knew it was none of his business, knew he had no right to pry, but…he had to know.

So despite himself, he found himself asking, “Are you…I mean, even if it was, um, strategic…are you and Draco...close?”

Snape had remained fairly quiet throughout Harry’s internal struggle, and he now studied him with an intensity Harry hadn’t expected, like he was trying to figure out what was going on in Harry’s head. Harry kept his eyes averted.

“I expect great things from the younger Mr. Malfoy,” Snape responded, neatly sidestepping the question.

“Yeah, but are you—”

“‘Close’ is a relative term. I have never tucked him in at night, nor do we share heart to heart chats over tea and crumpets.” Snape’s tone said he was quite through with the topic, and he was giving Harry a rather odd look.

“So…” Harry licked his lips, knowing he should take the hint and move on, but he’d gotten sidetracked and he still needed to get around to the topic of Lucius. “Are you still going to be…close with the Malfoys now you’re not on Vold— I mean You Know Who’s, um…list of trusted followers?”

Snape studied him closely, and Harry still didn’t dare meet his eyes. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and studied his own hands while Snape formed a response.

Snape answer was carefully controlled. “My connection with the Malfoys was built upon a foundation of dark arts, dark masters, and self-serving motivations. Continuing an acquaintance with a known traitor would not be in Lucius Malfoy’s best interests…knowledge he no doubt has already ensured his wife and son fully grasp.”

Harry frowned. How could Snape answer so well, and yet not _really_ answer? It was annoying. He chanced squeezing one more question into his turn. “Um, so you’re saying he would never go against You Know Who? Or would he just need a really, really good reason?”

Snape was quiet for several moments, and Harry chanced a glance up to see what was taking so long. Snape was still, watching Harry with his usual inscrutable expression.

When Snape finally spoke, it was in that low growl that told Harry not to even attempt to argue. “I would suggest, Mr. Potter, that you ask Lucius Malfoy that question, as only he truly knows his own motivations. However, as you probably would not hesitate to foolhardily search him out and do precisely that, we shall consider your round of questions concluded.” He paused. “I believe you have succeeded in wasting enough time. Return to your book.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered automatically, picking up the book. May as well quit while he was ahead. He could celebrate later that Snape had forgotten he had another turn left—

“Oh, and Potter?” Snape interrupted his thoughts, “My round of questions shall be considered delayed, rather than forfeited. I fully intend to collect, I assure you.”

Harry didn’t feel like arguing, so he flipped to the correct page and began to read.

Scratch that. He tried to begin to read. The book was just as discouraging as it had been before the distraction of talking to Snape. He may have overslept this morning, but well-rested or no, this book was making him want to go right back to bed.

As if his thoughts had brought it on, Harry stifled a yawn. He refocused his eyes on the open page.

_The study of Legilimency, while not crucial to the study of Occlumency, does present the opportunity for a vital analysis of the methodical differences in approach taken by…_

“Which is harder, Legilimency or Occlumency?” Harry asked aloud.

Snape raised his head to scowl across the table. “Do you think me an idiot, Potter? I am not here for your distraction, nor am I here for your amusement.”

“Well, you’re good at both of the, um, mental arts, right? So you should know. Which is harder?”

“If you are in such dire need of a break, go to the laboratory and begin your puffer-fish sorting. I’ll expect you back in fifteen minutes to continue your reading.”

“Er…no thanks. I’m at a…really good spot.”

Harry sighed and tried to keep his eyes open as he re-started a paragraph he had to have read multiple times. It’s just…every time he reached the end of the dry paragraph, he realized his mind had drifted off halfway through, leaving him unable to remember any of its contents.

“Legilimency,” said Snape suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Legilimency is an offensive skill, whereas Occlumency is defensive. Most wizards who study the mental arts find Legilimency highly more difficult to master, as it requires one to not only be able to control their own minds, but also to delve into the minds of others. Not all Occlumens are Legilimens, whereas it is nearly always essential for a Legilimens to be skilled in Occlumency.”

Staring for a moment before he realized Snape had actually answered his question, he stammered, “Oh…um, okay.” Not sure what else to say, he turned back to his book.

Snape gave no indication that he had heard Harry’s response, his quill furiously scratching across a half-full piece of parchment.

After that, both were silent for the remainder of the afternoon, something Harry would look back on with fondness the moment Albus Dumbledore arrived.

Because as it turned out, the headmaster had quite a few questions of his own.


	16. Visions of Sugar Plums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Harry’s dreams/visions thus far are referred to in this chapter, however briefly. If you feel the need to refer back to any of them, they can be found in Chapters 1, 7, 12, and 14.

By the time Dumbledore arrived in the late afternoon, Harry had only read the first three chapters in his new book. Of course, he’d probably read them multiple times each, if one counted all the pages he’d read and then re-read after realizing his wandering thoughts had kept him from actually processing anything. So when he heard the distinct sound of someone outside the door to the kitchen, he closed his book in a hurry. He didn’t see any point in making his lack of reading progress blatantly obvious to the headmaster.

Snape noticed, of course, if his smirk was any indication. But when _didn’t_ the seasoned spy notice everything around him? Harry just hoped he wouldn’t spitefully suggest that Dumbledore give some kind of oral exam on his readings.

“Harry! Good to see you, my boy! And Severus,” Dumbledore nodded cheerfully to the professor upon entering the kitchen, “I see you are working on your lesson plans. Very good, very good.”

Thankfully, Dumbledore and Snape started right in on a discussion of the upcoming year’s Potions curriculum, leaving Harry to enjoy the delay in discussing anything having to do with visions, Voldemort, or Occlumency.

Harry sighed as he watched the professors talking. It wasn’t that he _hated_ Occlumency. He was mainly worried about how Dumbledore would decide to teach him. Would he use the same attack methods that Snape had used? Harry didn’t look forward to having to give up more of his memories, even if he did trust Dumbledore more than he trusted Snape.

And if he let himself admit it, he was kind of apprehensive for another reason. If he failed to learn this time, would Dumbledore come to the same conclusion that Snape had: that Harry was completely, hopelessly inept?

“Shall we retire to the drawing room then, Harry?” Dumbledore’s voice broke into his thoughts, and the older wizard gestured to the door. Harry gave a half-hearted smile before resignedly following him out of the room and into the hallway. The only thing he heard as he left the kitchen was the familiar scratching of Snape’s quill against parchment.

“Sit, Harry, please,” Dumbledore pointed to a chair when they arrived at the drawing room. He sat on the sofa opposite Harry. The table between them was already laid out with two tall glasses and a tray of assorted finger foods. “Upon my arrival, I took the liberty of requesting that Dobby provide us with a few refreshments,” Dumbledore explained at Harry’s curious glance.

“Oh. It…it looks good,” Harry answered. It didn’t look good though, not really. His stomach was starting to knot up. Was Dumbledore going to begin the evening by asking him about the book or by attacking his mind? Neither option sounded too appealing.

“Professor Snape has explained to you that I will be continuing your lessons, I presume?” Dumbledore asked conversationally, helping himself to some of the refreshments.

Harry cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Dumbledore reached for his glass and took a sip before continuing. “Now. There are a few things we should discuss first.”

“You mean the visions?” Harry guessed. “The ones from Voldemort? Professor Snape told me you’d want to hear about them.”

“Well, yes—I would like to discuss that with you, though perhaps later, I think.” Dumbledore leveled his gaze at Harry. “I was not previously aware that you had been having visions, Harry.”

Harry looked down at the disappointment in the headmaster’s tone. It was amazing how the headmaster could say what he meant without having to actually say it. Harry knew the headmaster was expressing his displeasure that Harry hadn’t come to him earlier.

“We will discuss the specifics later, then.” the headmaster continued at Harry’s silence. “If you have indeed been having visions from Voldemort, I would like for Professor Snape to be present at your recounting.”

“Why?” asked Harry. He hadn’t thought about it earlier, but now…why did Snape have to be so involved in every detail of his life lately? It was starting to exhaust him, really.

“Professor Snape knows Lord Voldemort extremely well, Harry. I would like for him to hear the details of your visions in case he has additional insight to share.” Dumbledore paused, then continued, “Additionally, Harry, Professor Snape is sharing close quarters with you this summer. Should you have another vision, he will likely be the only one around.”

Harry nodded. That, he unfortunately knew.

“We will revisit this before I leave today,” the headmaster added, “but while we are alone, I want you to give your word to me that should you have another vision from Voldemort, you will immediately inform Professor Snape.”

Harry looked up, dread on his face. “Can’t I just firecall you? Or Remus? Why does it have to be _him_?”

“Your word, Harry,” Dumbledore pressed intently, “Day or night, I want your word that you will go to him straightaway with any more visions.”

“From Voldemort,” Harry clarified, suddenly thinking of his other dreams. He didn’t know if he could call them visions, exactly…to tell the truth, he had no idea what to call them. But he wasn’t eager to promise the sharing of those, especially as he hadn’t given much of his own waking time to thinking them over.

“Yes, Harry, from Voldemort.” The headmaster gave him a searching look but made no further comment.

Harry nodded again, grudgingly. “Okay, alright. I promise.”

“Excellent. Now, what I wanted to speak with you about—”

“That wasn’t it?”

“No, my dear boy, although we may want to have a discussion sometime about the inappropriateness of interrupting one’s elders.”

Harry flushed, though from Dumbledore’s smiling eyes, he could tell he was being teased, not lectured.

“I want to speak with you about a rather delicate matter,” the headmaster went on, the smile fading from his eyes. “I sent someone to have a little…chat with your relatives.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“As you left their household so abruptly, I felt it necessary to send someone to explain to them that you were with friends and would not be returning for the remainder of holiday.”

“Oh,” Harry replied simply, recovering from his surprise at the topic. The Dursleys had been the absolute last thing on his mind. He wasn’t sure how he felt about another wizard going to meet them…especially if they had gone out of courtesy. He couldn’t help but add, “I bet they weren’t happy to hear that.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “I was under the impression that all concerned were satisfied with your temporary move.”

“I meant they wouldn’t be happy to hear I was with friends,” Harry explained darkly. “You’d have made them loads happier if you’d told them I was captured by dark wizards or something.”

Dumbledore made no reply to that. He merely sipped from his tall glass. After a moment, he spoke again, calmly. “My representative was not welcomed with open arms, to say the least. However, he was able to relay the message. He also managed to very firmly discuss what would happen if they were to ever attempt to harm you again.”

“Yeah, well, threats never did much good, you know,” Harry felt the need to point out. “Moody threatened them, and it only took them a bit longer to get nasty.” Then he registered Dumbledore’s phrasing, and he felt a chill run through him alongside a horrible rising suspicion. “Wait a minute, you said ‘again.’ I thought I didn’t have to go back there.”

“You will not return this summer. You have fortunately resided there enough time for the blood magic to be renewed. As for next summer…” Dumbledore sighed. “Harry, I cannot make any promises to you in that regard. Depending upon the status of the war and the extent of danger to you, you may very well need to return to the Dursleys for a short time in order to be safe.”

“What?” Harry asked numbly. He couldn’t help a sharp stab of betrayal that shot through his gut. He’d thought…he’d honestly thought that the headmaster had let him stay at Grimmauld Place because he cared about him, because he didn’t want him to be hurt. Maybe even that he cared enough to not want Harry to be unhappy. But now… He stood, the feeling of betrayal giving way to a sudden fury. “When have I ever been safe there? Just a few days ago, you said it wasn’t in my best interests to go back! Professor Snape _told_ you what they were like! Snape, who hates me,” he angrily pointed out, “told you how bad they are! And now you’re saying, after knowing all that, you’re just going to send me back anyway?”

“Harry, we have an entire year to discuss—”

“RIGHT.” Harry’s voice rose to a shout, though images of the headmaster’s office last year surfaced briefly before he pushed them aside. This was different. This was worse. The combination of betrayal and anger surged through his veins. “BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT WILL REALLY HAPPEN, WON’T IT? WE’LL DISCUSS, BUT THEN YOU’LL MAKE THE DECISION! AND THERE WILL BE NOTHING I CAN SAY TO CHANGE IT!”

“Harry, sit down—”

“WHY SHOULD I?”

The answer came from behind an opening drawing room door. “Because you’re yelling down the bloody house, Potter.” Snape peered stiffly through the narrow opening. “What in Merlin’s name— Is everything quite alright, Albus?”

“Yes, Severus,” Dumbledore sighed wearily. “A minor disagreement. We’ll be fine, thank you.”

“Minor?” Harry backed away from Dumbledore. “This isn’t minor! THIS IS MY LIFE!”

“Harry, please sit down.” Dumbledore spoke softly, as if saying it louder might cause him physical pain.

Harry didn’t sit; he remained standing where he was, rage boiling inside him. _Just when I’d decided maybe that I could trust him._ He clamped his lips firmly together. Dumbledore didn’t want him to yell? Fine. But he wouldn’t do him the courtesy of talking. Let the old man fill the silence.

But Snape broke the silence first, criticism in his voice, “This is the selfsame headmaster you claimed to ‘respect,’ Potter? You clearly have little concept of what that term implies.”

“Severus.” Dumbledore held up a hand to silence Snape, his eyes never straying from Harry’s furious gaze. “Harry has a right to be upset. I only ask that he hear me out.”

Harry kept silent, afraid of what else might come pouring out if he opened his tightly closed lips.

Snape looked from Dumbledore to Harry and back again, then backed out of the room without a word.

Harry couldn’t help what he did next. He didn’t give himself time to think about it, even. He opened those tightly closed lips, not even caring that it was _Snape_ he was calling out to, and said, “He’s sending me back! You saw what the Dursleys are like. Tell him he can’t send me back!”

The retreating professor paused, hand on the doorknob, and fixed puzzled eyes on Harry.

Harry felt like sinking through the floor. He hadn’t meant to sound pleading, and he couldn’t believe he’d just asked Snape, of all people, for help. But…Snape had taken him away from them and somehow convinced Dumbledore to let him stay here. It stood to reason he might be able to keep him from going back again.

Dumbledore’s voice cut through the awkward moment, weariness shining through in every syllable, “Harry, I am not suggesting that you return anytime soon. I am not even saying that you ever will. I simply need for you to be prepared for the possibility that you may not be safe anywhere else.”

Harry gave voice then to what was really bothering him, something that bothered him a dozen times more than the Dursleys themselves ever could. After all, he could deal with the Dursleys. He hated them, but he could get through whatever they decided to do to him. What he couldn’t deal with was knowing that Dumbledore didn’t _care_ how hard it was for him to do so. “I know that you _know_ now! You know they don’t let me eat all the time and how my uncle gets when he’s angry and that they treat me like a house-elf, all things you claim not to have known before! How can you say I’d be _safe_? You even admitted less than a week ago that it wasn’t the best place for me! And now you’re going back on it!”

“I did not say for certain that you will—”

“Fine! You said _maybe_ I’ll go back! Don’t you see? It doesn’t make a difference if you’ve decided for sure! The fact that you’re even _considering_ it—” Harry broke off, a wave of hurt preventing him from continuing without yelling or, Merlin forbid, crying. He took a deep breath.

“I am to understand this…altercation is over a suggestion to return Mr. Potter to his relatives’ home,” Snape stated, not asking, as it was clear that was the case.

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You may as well enter, Severus, as Harry has made it clear you are not an unwelcome participant in this conversation.”

Snape accepted the invitation, fully stepping into the room, and closed the door behind him. Just as well, thought Harry. An open, unguarded door was too tempting an escape.

The man stood just inside the room and stiffly crossed his arms over his chest. Harry couldn’t tell by Snape’s expressionless face what he thought of the situation. He just counted himself fortunate that his professor hadn’t yet insisted that the headmaster send him back right away due to his insolence.

Harry quickly rummaged through his mind for something, some way to make Dumbledore understand how horrible it was to contemplate going back to the Dursleys ever again after finally feeling reassured that he was done with them once and for all. Anything…

“They kept me in a cupboard,” he burst out impulsively, then almost clamped his hands over his mouth. Oh god. _Why_ hadn’t he given it more thought before blurting out something so humiliating?

“Pardon?” Snape was the one who asked; Dumbledore hadn’t said anything for several seconds and looked rather exhausted.

Harry took a steadying breath. Well…he may as well finish what he started. He rushed to explain before he could change his mind, “Before I got my Hogwarts letter, I lived in the cupboard under the stairs. I wasn’t allowed a bedroom, and they locked me in, sometimes for days at a time, and they didn’t always give me food when they did, either, and I only got Dudley’s second bedroom when they thought wizards might find out, and—”

“Harry…Harry, my child,” interrupted Dumbledore, who had risen during Harry’s rambling to walk over to him. He reached out a hand, and Harry flinched, jumping back from the contact. He glared at the headmaster as he edged further away, toward the door, though it was hard to glare what with trying to keep his fraying emotions from showing.

“You can’t send me back there,” Harry whispered, still backing away, “not because of the Dursleys, but because of you and me. Now you know how much they hate me. If you send me back, I’ll know that all _you_ care about is my role in this bloody war. I’ll know you don’t care a flip about _me_.”

As angry as he was, as soon as those words left Harry’s mouth, he felt a deep pang of regret. The feeling worsened as he witnessed Dumbledore’s face seeming to age before his eyes. He was even almost sure he detected a touch of grief in the wizard’s eyes.

A throat cleared immediately behind Harry, and he jumped, spinning around. In his inching away from Dumbledore, he’d very nearly backed into Snape. The dark man loomed above him, perhaps more intimidating right then because of Harry’s overwrought state. The Potions professor’s mask of indifference was still in place, but as he met Harry’s eyes, Harry saw a flicker of some unidentifiable emotion. He started to back away from him too before he realized that would just bring him closer to Dumbledore, so he simply pivoted to face the headmaster, deciding at that moment he preferred close proximity even to Snape than to Dumbledore.

“Harry…” Dumbledore said hesitantly, “I…am so sorry for all that you have been through. It was never my intention for you to be hurt such as you were. I knew it was not ideal, that is true…but you are correct; I now possess more information than I did. And, as we would all do well to remember, with more knowledge comes greater responsibility.”

Harry couldn’t have interrupted if he’d wanted to. As angry as he’d just been, he now felt deflated at the pain in Dumbledore’s eyes, and at knowing that he’d caused it with his sharp words. He finally just listened.

“You are under the misunderstanding, Harry, that I underestimate that responsibility. Please believe me when I state that should circumstances necessitate your return to the Dursleys’ home, you would not go as unprotected as you have in past years.”

Harry regarded him silently for a moment. “What do you mean?” he asked with a tinge of skepticism.

Dumbledore gestured to the chair. “Now that I believe you may listen, I think we might all prefer to be more comfortable.”

Harry didn’t move.

Dumbledore sat anyway, returning to his seat on the sofa and helping himself to a long drink from his glass. “Severus?” he addressed Snape, offering him a seat on the other end of the sofa.

Harry watched the professor walk over to the proffered seat, deliberating over whether to take the olive branch or to remain standing as a show of defiance. With all his shakiness, his legs were feeling pretty tired.

Snape sat on the sofa, sitting up straight…business-like, Harry thought, like he wasn’t looking to get too comfortable. Harry looked away quickly as Snape raised his head to catch Harry staring at him.

“Sit, Potter,” Snape ordered. “Your anger toward the headmaster is no excuse for impudence.”

Harry’s anger resurfaced, and he opened his mouth to tell Snape just where he could put his “impudence,” but when he took in the man’s face, his words didn’t come. Snape wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t sneering either, and he wasn’t looking down his nose at Harry. He just looked…normal. Not normal for Snape, but…well, almost normal for a teacher who’d just heard a student say he’d been raised in a cupboard. He looked…unsettled.

Harry felt unsettled, too. So, pride or no, he found himself walking over to sit in the chair. He sank into it and crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “What do you mean?” he asked again, eyes on the unappetizing platter of food arranged between himself and his professors.

“Several thoughts have entered my mind,” Dumbledore began slowly, “although I had generally planned to discuss specifics with you as the school year progressed. I…thought perhaps you might have some suggestions as to a way we might ensure that you remained safe with your relatives.”

“What ideas have you already thought of?” Harry asked, ready to make Dumbledore prove he wasn’t coming up with this on the fly.

Dumbledore rose to the occasion. “One idea I had was to send you to them with a house guest to keep an eye on the situation. A friend, perhaps. An of age and armed friend, of course, so as to allow for proper protection.”

“A friend,” repeated Harry. He frowned. It might work. But would that friend have to see the same embarrassing things that Snape had seen? “Yeah, that makes sense…” Harry conceded, thinking it through as he spoke, not looking either of his professors in the eye, “but it wouldn’t make them hate me any less. Um…like finding Professor Snape in the house…see, it kind of just made Uncle Vernon angrier.”

Dumbledore looked to Snape, then. “Your opinion, Severus?”

Snape thought for a moment before answering, his features carefully schooled. Harry couldn’t help wondering if he was wishing he weren’t here. He felt another rush of embarrassment at knowing that the professor was here because Harry had practically begged him to be.

“I concur with Mr. Potter’s assessment,” Snape finally responded. Harry looked up quickly. Had Snape just _agreed_ with him? “His uncle, in particular, does not seem able to comprehend the art of civility or rationality in regard to his nephew, predominantly in the face of a perceived threat. A wizard guardian may serve to keep the physical abuse at bay, but I expect it would merely aggravate the situation were the guardian to let Mr. Potter out of their sight.”

Harry relaxed a bit into his chair. He supposed anything Snape said shouldn’t make him feel relieved, but it did. Despicable Potions professor or no, he seemed to already have a basic understanding of Vernon Dursley. Which helped when Dumbledore was more likely to listen to a fellow professor than a student. For the first time, Harry was kind of glad he’d asked Snape to stay.

Dumbledore nodded sadly in response to Snape’s words. “A second option would be to have a wizard check in periodically, but if, as you say, a full-time wizard would be akin to stirring up a horntail’s nest, I expect that would not be the best option either.” Dumbledore leaned forward then, searching Harry’s eyes. “As I explained before, we have the entire school year to discuss. We do not have to decide anything anytime soon. I do, however, hope that I have been able to convince you that should you ever need to return, Harry, I would not allow you to do so without some recourse available to you. You understand now, Harry, that I am not approaching the situation haphazardly without concern for your welfare…don’t you?”

Dumbledore was practically pleading for Harry to understand, and Harry found himself nodding…half from exhaustion after arguing and half because he was starting to understand. It didn’t make him happy, but knowing that Dumbledore at least had thought about the need for some kind of additional provision or protection for Harry lessened the feeling of betrayal that had taken root in his heart. 

“Before we proceed to another topic, Harry,” Dumbledore began hesitantly, “I would like to ask you if there is anything else about your life at the Dursleys that we might possibly need to know about.”

Harry shook his head automatically before Dumbledore had finished speaking. “No, sir.”

“You are quite certain?”

“Nothing else, sir,” Harry answered without meeting his eyes.

Dumbledore paused as if considering his next words. “Harry…I did not know the degree to which the Dursleys mistreated you. In years past I have seen a boy not quite so loved or as well cared for as he should have been. And I now know what Professor Snape was able to recount from his own observations. But this…this is the first time you have personally confided an instance of their abuse to me.” He paused to take in Harry’s now rigid form and averted eyes. “Considering all of this, it seems logical for me to assume that there may be more that you have not yet shared.”

Harry was shaking his head again. “No, sir,” he repeated, images of swinging frying pans and present-less birthdays and Harry-hunting running through his head. He was sorely wishing he’d kept his mouth shut about the cupboard. It had seemed so necessary in that split second to make Dumbledore understand how much the Dursleys hated him…but now he felt like sinking into his chair in humiliation.

“I do think perhaps you should speak with someone, Harry, even if you refuse to confide in me.”

“Why?” Harry wasn’t being impertinent. He looked up in genuine confusion. What good would it do to talk about something that had already happened? He knew his relatives hated him, but he also knew he didn’t deserve anything they’d done or said. “I’m not a head case, professor,” he felt the need to point out. “I don’t need therapy or anything. I’m fine.”

Dumbledore gave him a searching look, which Harry didn’t avoid this time. Maybe if Harry looked right at him, he’d believe that Harry really was okay.

Dumbledore finally nodded, though his eyes still held sadness. “On to another topic, perhaps?”

Harry nodded, relieved.

“I do think that perhaps our discussion about Occlumency lessons will need to be postponed. I had thought to complete an exercise that would require much more concentration than either of us possesses at this moment. So,” Dumbledore continued, “why don’t you begin tonight on your own by trying out the first three exercises in chapter five?”

Harry nodded, trying to look like he knew what the headmaster was talking about, seeing as he hadn’t progressed past chapter three.

He made a point not to look at Snape right then, not really caring to find out for himself if the man was smirking, sneering, or sporting an all-knowing look.

“Very good,” Dumbledore nodded. “Now. As Professor Snape is here with us, perhaps we should proceed with a discussion of your visions?” He paused, and Harry got the feeling he was trying to proceed slowly, maybe to calm the still tense mood of the room. He questioned gently, “How many visions have you had from Voldemort since the beginning of holiday, Harry?

Harry thought a minute, shifting gears into this new, though not much safer, topic of conversation. “Um…four? Three at the Dursleys, one since I got here.”

Dumbledore motioned for him to elaborate.

“Well, okay…I had one the first week of summer. He was torturing someone…” Harry swallowed. “…a Muggle-born, I think. The next one wasn’t really clear. He was happy about something, that’s all I know. He was congratulating one of his Death Eaters, but I couldn’t tell who it was. The, um, third was the morning Professor Snape showed up and I saw Voldemort torturing him and his escape. And…the fourth was a few nights ago, when he realized I wasn’t at the Dursleys anymore.”

He waited for the lecturing to begin again about how he should have told them all about his visions before, but thankfully, the lectures didn’t come. Of course, he’d been scolded by both professors already; maybe they figured the message didn’t need repeating. For whatever the reason, Dumbledore only proceeded to ask questions about his visions, Snape cutting in occasionally to clarify.

Did he recognize the Muggle-born Voldemort was torturing?

No.

Did he recognize anything about the Death Eater he was congratulating?

No.

Did he recognize Snape in his third vision?

No…not until he showed up at the Dursleys.

What was the Dark Lord’s emotional state at the time?

Exhilarated. Happy. Happy again, then angry. Then really angry.

And so it continued, until Harry felt properly worn out by the questions and he could tell that Snape, at least, was visibly frustrated by how little he could tell them from his visions. Well, Harry figured, it wasn’t like any of them were very long. They were just little snippets, really.

And it was kind of confusing Harry…shouldn’t they be happy he hadn’t had longer, more detailed visions? It was something they were striving to control by forcing him to learn Occlumency, after all…wasn’t it?

When he voiced as much, Dumbledore rushed to assure him, “Of course we want you to learn to control this connection, Harry. Ideally, you would have nothing to share with us today. However, as your control has not increased and you are having these visions, there is no sense in ignoring them. Do not misunderstand this, Harry,” he stressed, meeting Harry’s eyes, “Learning to control this connection is infinitely more important than gleaning information from Lord Voldemort’s mind, particularly as he has proven himself able to send you false visions from time to time.”

Harry nodded in understanding. When he thought of that one false vision that ended Sirius’ life and changed his own, he couldn’t argue with the headmaster’s logic.

“I must admit to being puzzled by one thing more, Harry. Professor Snape explained to me this morning that he woke you from a rather alarming nightmare whilst at your relatives’ home.” Dumbledore watched him closely. “You did not reference that night in the summary of your visions…”

Harry felt heat climbing up his neck. “No, sir. It was just a, um…dream.”

“You’re sure?” he pressed.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“If I might inquire…” Snape cut in. “The state Mr. Potter was in prior to waking would suggest no ordinary dream. As a matter of fact, in light of his refusal to notify anyone of his other visions, I find it hard to believe that this one was in no way related to his connection with the Dark Lord.”

“It wasn’t!” Harry insisted before Dumbledore could respond. “I’d know, wouldn’t I? My scar didn’t hurt. It didn’t even twinge. It was just a really bad nightmare! But…I’m okay now, and we really should just, um, move on.” He hoped they would take the hint. Images of his nightmare were starting to swim before his eyes, and he really, really didn’t want to relive something so horrible ever again.

But then, when had Snape ever taken a hint when Harry wanted him to?

“Potter,” Snape began, his lecturing-professor voice perfectly in place, “I am fully aware that you are under the assumption that you are capable of judging what is relevant to this war. Allow me to correct that assumption: you are not. By withholding any and all information from us of your visions, you have already demonstrated that you are lacking in that department. As such, you will allow the headmaster and myself to judge what may or may not be significant.”

Harry glared, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was already tired from arguing about the Dursleys and then relaying his other visions, and all he worried about right then was how he could possibly get out of talking about his strange new dreams.

However, judging by the stubborn set of Snape’s jaw, he figured he’d be more likely to get out of a detention with Filch than out of this conversation.

Harry sighed as he realized his own tiredness was working in Snape’s favor. He was simply too tired to fight. The only thing more exhausting than having to read a thick book about a subject you couldn’t care a flip about was having to relay, in detail, every dream you’d had since school let out. It was downright embarrassing, too.

“Fine,” he ducked his head and wearily sank into his chair. “What do you want to know?” All he could hope was that it wouldn’t take too long.

“Simply tell us your dream,” Dumbledore urged gently. “Start at the beginning, please.”

Harry took a moment to collect his thoughts. He truly hadn’t thought about the dream very much at all. Other than the most horrifying images, which swam before his eyes even now, the rest was almost a blur. “I, um…I remember chasing after a snitch. I’m not sure how long I chased it, but I think it’s what led me to Hogwarts. No, Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade first.” He swallowed, and he paused to brace himself before explaining the horrors he’d never forget.

He must have paused a little too long, because Dumbledore urged, “Go on, Harry. What happened next in your dream?”

Harry shifted. His chair was starting to feel uncomfortable. “I saw...people. They were all dead. And there were ruins, like the town had been burnt to the ground.” He hurried on before he could be consumed by the images and the memory of the smoke. “And I saw Hogwarts, too. It was gone, just like Hogsmeade. And I saw my friends—” He stopped, horrified when he heard his voice crack on that last word. He cleared his throat and continued right away to cover it up, refusing to detail exactly what he had seen and smelled. “I think I was dreaming that we lost the war…and that Voldemort had won.”

“And that is when you woke Professor Snape,” Dumbledore prodded gently.

Harry flushed at remembering. Well, at least Dumbledore had had the grace not to point out Harry’s terrified screaming.

“Yeah…” Harry answered, though he hesitated, his face forming into a frown. Wasn’t he forgetting something? Something else… _someone_ else…

He actually felt his own eyes light up in remembrance as something came rushing back to him. “No! No, that wasn’t it. There was another me there, too. I was looking down at Hogwarts, and this…myself…I flew up to me and started talking.”

“Merlin preserve us,” Snape inserted dryly, “two Potters. A nightmare indeed. Little wonder it was upsetting.”

“Yeah, well, there wasn’t any Snape, so it was a lot better than it could have been,” Harry shot back. He guessed he wasn’t ever too tired to get his hackles up by the thoroughly irritating man.

“ _Professor_ Snape, Mr. Potter,” Snape answered neutrally. “Even in your dreams, you would do well to remember those pesky little things called manners and respect.”

“Yeah, well, seeing as how you’re just as nasty in dreams as you are in the real world, forgive me if I don’t think you deserve it.”

But Snape ignored the blatant rudeness to mockingly raise his eyebrows. “Why, Potter. You do dream of me? How…touching.”

Harry felt his face redden. Dumbledore finally stepped in. “Harry. Your dream…?” he reminded patiently.

Harry was a little surprised, actually, to see that the headmaster didn’t look all that bothered by his rather rude exchange with Snape. In fact, Harry could almost swear that somewhere in the back of Dumbledore’s deep blue eyes, he looked…pleased. Harry shook his head. He didn’t have the slightest guess what Dumbledore could possible have found to be happy about.

Forcing his mind back to the topic at hand, he continued as best he could. “The other me…um, he said he was a part of me, that he could…well, that he could see the future.” He watched his professors carefully for reactions. He needed to know what they thought of that claim. He needed to know, because parts of last night’s dream were starting to come back to him as well…and the main thing he was remembering was that it had been so incredibly real.

He saw something in Snape’s eyes flicker at mention of the future, but nothing else showed in the two men’s expressions. He continued, barely noticing as his own voice dropped to a whisper. “He said that Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, all…that…happened because I had failed to defeat Voldemort.”

“Harry…” Dumbledore waited until Harry looked up to meet his eyes, then continued, “You have had to bear a mighty burden, something much too large for one so young. I am very sorry for that. Naturally, this anxiety…and your need to protect your loved ones…has poured over into your dreams.”

Harry nodded, his heart not really in it. Yes, that was the logical explanation. Much more logical than believing he really did have some kind of Other Harry who brought him dreams of the future. But…something inside Harry—something he had been ignoring—kind of didn’t like the logical explanation. Something inside him was starting to wonder if they could really be as real as they seemed.

What? Real visions of the future? He may as well check himself into St. Mungo’s in the morning, he thought as he shook the absurd thoughts out of his head.

“…nothing to do with Lord Voldemort, Severus.” Harry registered that Dumbledore had already been speaking to Snape, and he quickly focused on paying attention as the headmaster continued, “The dream really does seem straightforward in nature, clearly Harry’s way of dealing with the stress of the wizarding world’s expectations of him.”

“I disagree,” argued Snape vehemently. “Visions of the future? This is precisely the way the Dark Lord would choose to confuse our efforts! Convincing Potter, dream by dream, that he is capable of accurately seeing future events unfold is well and good, assuming one doesn’t mind feeding into his arrogance. However, the moment Potter truly begins to believe in these visions, the Dark Lord will strike. Perhaps he will send a vision in order to force our efforts into a certain direction, or perhaps he intends only to drive Potter insane, leaving us with a muddled boy all the more easy to capture and control!”

“Visions?” was Dumbledore’s only response to Snape’s tirade. “Harry has only relayed the one. He has hardly been developing a pattern. This is the only dream such as this that you have had, is it not, Harry?”

He directed the last question back to Harry, who had been listening to Snape’s words with a growing sense of dread. Could it really be Voldemort? He hadn’t thought… His scar hadn’t hurt…

“Harry?”

Harry licked his suddenly dry lips, then croaked, “N-no, professor. I had one kind of like it last night. He…my other self, he was back. And he told me a lot more…”

Dumbledore and Snape looked much too serious for Harry’s comfort as the former urged him to explain his most recent dream.

He averted his eyes, trying to get it all out in one go. “I was in a basement. It was dark, and I was there…another me, I mean. But not the ‘other me.’ It was another ‘other me.’” He took a deep breath. This was going to be harder than he thought. Before one of the no-doubt confused professors could question or before Snape could comment on yet a third nightmarish Potter, he tried again. “Okay, so I was sitting there, in the dark, and I was cold, and my other self—the one from my other dream—showed up. He started talking to me, and he told me to explore the basement, and when I did, I saw… _another_ me…only, this me was a prisoner. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake. He was breathing, but just staring, not seeing…” Harry shuddered.

“Severus?” Dumbledore questioned quietly before Harry could continue. Harry didn’t understand what he was asking until Snape answered.

“The description is in accord with the expected effects of the potion I brewed for the Dark Lord,” Snape confirmed, his face impassive. 

“So…” Harry continued, a little shaky, “then Other Harry and I started talking. Oh, I guess I kept thinking of him as ‘Other Harry.’ So, um…he told me that…” Harry scrunched up his face, trying to remember exactly what he had said. It was only the night before… And then he remembered. He was surprised at how well he remembered, actually. “He told me that seeing the future was tricky, that Hogsmeade and Hogwarts from my other dream were only possibilities that would happen if we lost the war, but that me being in that basement, that…that Voldemort was going to capture me and get my blood, and it couldn’t be prevented.”

Harry realized as he waited for his professors to speak that he had started shivering. He held his arms tightly across his chest to ward off the chill, but it didn’t help. It wouldn’t, he supposed. The chill wasn’t in the air; it was coming from inside himself.

“Was there anything else, Harry?”

“Um…” He racked his brain for anything else in answer to the headmaster. Like last time, he knew there was more…but he had to think before he could remember. “Well, um…I guess I should tell you how real it was… I mean, I knew while I was there—both dreams—that it was a dream. I knew before I woke up that it wasn’t real, but…it was like I was physically there. I could see and hear and feel and even smell… _everything_. It…it was just so real,” he repeated, almost plaintively.

He raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore’s, needing to see that he understood. It just seemed very important right then that the headmaster understand how _real_ it was.

Dumbledore nodded, then merely asked, “Was there more in the dream?”

“I asked the other me for proof,” Harry offered. “He said he was real, and I told him I needed proof.”

“And did he give you proof, Harry?”

“No.” Harry was surprised that he felt let down. He wasn’t supposed to…it was a dream. It wasn’t _supposed_ to be real. “He just handed me a snitch and told me to trust and something about instincts, and then he left. That’s all.”

The room was silent for several seconds as Harry waited for one of the professors to speak.

Snape broke the silence. “Albus, surely you now see the danger we are presented with if Potter continues to have these dreams, particularly if they have anything whatsoever to do with the Dark Lord. The boy is obviously tending toward believing in them.”

“I am not!” Harry automatically denied.

Both professors ignored Harry’s denial. Actually, they ignored Harry altogether, to his complete annoyance.

“Perhaps, Severus, but what good can possibly come of convincing Harry that he will be captured?”

“How many times have we not understood the Dark Lord’s methods until he has completed his plans? Knowledge of what he hopes to attain through this is not what concerns me at this juncture. We already know that nothing he is planning can be good. Stopping him is all that matters.”

“And what do you suggest we do? Dose Harry with a pint of dreamless sleep potion nightly?” Dumbledore’s tone clearly expressed the ludicrousness of that possibility.

“Of course not! A potions addict is hardly what Potter needs to become on top of his other failings! What he needs is to become adept at Occlumency, to block out these visions immediately.”

Harry piped up, curiosity winning out over his annoyance at his professors. A question had arisen, a question he couldn’t help but ask… “What if...I mean, just what if these are real? I’m not saying I believe they are!” Harry rushed to say at Snape’s I-told-you-so look. “I, um…just wondered…if they were real, and this erm…Other Harry really is a part of myself…like an inner voice or something…well, just if it were true…would Occlumency work against myself?”

As soon as he’d asked the question and was faced with two staring professors, he wished he’d just kept his mouth shut. The concern in Dumbledore’s eyes was only overshadowed by Snape’s look of urgency. Apparently he’d just proved to them that their theories were right—that Harry was in danger of falling for Voldemort’s newest set of tricks.

He sank into his chair. “Are we done yet?” he asked wearily, just wanting it to be over.

Thankfully, Dumbledore agreed. “Yes, Harry. I think that we have exhausted ourselves quite enough for one day. Professor Snape and I, of course, will need to speak more about the situation and devise a proper solution. You, however, have done quite well. Thank you, Harry.”

Harry just nodded.

“I could do with a spot of pudding, actually. Couldn’t you both?” Dumbledore inquired, purposely lighter in tone.

“No,” was Snape’s short response, but mere seconds later, they nonetheless found themselves with plates of sugar plum pudding in their hands

Snape quickly placed his onto the table, untouched.

“Compliments of Mrs. Weasley,” Dumbledore explained, eyes starting to twinkle. “I find it quite delicious, don’t you, Harry?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied obediently as he took a bite. Mmm, it was good. He remembered, then, that Mrs. Weasley had sent him some along with Ron’s birthday present. He’d forgotten about it, and he’d never eaten it. He wrinkled his nose at realizing that it must still be in his trunk. Ew… Well, at least the most likely spoiled dessert was in a closed container.

Fortunately, it didn’t spoil his appetite. The pudding was too good for that, he thought as he took another bite. And it was nice to have something pleasant to focus on after so much seriousness.

Snape, on the other hand, looked about to lose whatever contents he had in his stomach, and Harry wondered what the man had against dessert, anyway. He’d turned down chocolate cake at Harry’s “birthday party,” and now pudding? Harry shrugged. Well, his loss, really. But Harry couldn’t help wondering what the man _would_ consider a decent dessert. Hmm…he probably ate weird potions ingredients late at night in his lab. _Yeah_ , Harry decided, feeling a bit happier at having something funny to imagine about Snape. _That must be what made him so greasy and git-like: too many late night puffer-fish snacks_.

Ugh. Still, Harry grinned a little as he reached for a glass.

Dumbledore winked at his smile, his own eyes twinkling. “Sugar plums, Harry. It’s all about the sugar plums!” He then raised his glass in a mock toast and drank the few sips he had left.

“Sugar plums?” Harry repeated dumbly, grin leaving his face as suddenly as it had appeared. Dumbledore’s words repeated in his head, over and over and over. _Sugar plums. It’s all about the sugar plums._ Harry felt his heart begin to pound in his chest as a memory came back to him. They were the very words he had heard Dumbledore say in the golden snitch in his dream back at the Dursleys! Meaningless words, really, but it was the whole scene—the way Dumbledore had winked, his facial expressions, even the mock toast—everything was how he had seen it in the dream.

Everything.

He’d forgotten, but now he remembered it with startling clarity.

Harry felt like the world was getting fuzzy, or moving in slow motion. It had to be a coincidence…right? It was such a mundane comment. He couldn’t possibly have really seen the future!

…right?

He couldn’t talk, his mind racing too fast to keep up with. He focused on the two men, listening but not really hearing what was being said, as Dumbledore goaded Snape into eating the dessert.

And then Snape opened his mouth to speak, and Harry heard a second set of familiar words as if in slow motion: “I’d prefer moldy cabbages boiled in beetle stew.” And Snape brushed his hair away from his face, crossing his arms in a silent refusal to touch Mrs. Weasley’s concoction.

Harry’s glass slipped through his hands, breaking on the edge of the table before crashing to the floor.

He’d seen the future...

He’d actually _seen the future_.


	17. The Second Prophecy

He’d seen the future.

Harry barely registered the sound of breaking glass as his mind raced into a thousand different directions all at once.

It was real.

Hogsmeade, Hogwarts…?

No! Those were only possibilities. Other Harry had said so.

But Voldemort…the basement. The certainty of capture, of Voldemort gaining strength…

All of a sudden, Harry found it difficult to breathe.

He heard Dumbledore’s voice as if through a tunnel. He was calling Harry’s name, asking if he was alright. He sounded worried.

Harry took a deep breath and then another. “I saw the future,” he whispered, eyes wide in disbelief. He looked up. “I really saw the future!”

Dumbledore had half arisen out of his seat, and he now rose completely, moving around to Harry’s side.

Snape only stared, not bothering to hide his concern. _Not concern for me_ , Harry knew through his muddied state. _No, never concern for me…concern that Voldemort’s taking me over…_

“Just now, Harry?” asked Dumbledore, neatly sidestepping the broken glass and kneeling next to his chair. “You had a vision just now?”

“No…” Harry shook his head to clear it. He needed to think. Or he needed to stop thinking so many things at once. “Before. In my dreams.” He turned to the headmaster then, urgency in his voice, “Before, professor, in my dream! The other me handed me a snitch, and I had forgotten, but it came back just now—the snitch swirled, all these colors, and you appeared, and I saw you say just what you said, the bit about the sugar plums, and the wink, and the toast! I saw it before it happened!”

Snape leaned forward in his seat. “It is common enough to comment on pudding, Potter. You had received some that very night, had you not?”

Harry nodded, his mind still racing despite his attempts to slow it down.

“Well, there you have it,” Snape returned crisply. “Put the two together, and it is not at all difficult to imagine that you—”

“But I saw you, too!” Harry interrupted to point out, feeling the beginnings of desperation set in. Would they refuse to believe him? He knew what he saw!

Snape was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“The second dream! When I asked for proof, remember? Remember I told you I asked for proof? And all he did was give me a snitch, and it changed colors, like before, and this time _you_ appeared, and you said the bit about the cabbages and the beetle stew, and you crossed your arms just so! I didn’t know it then, but he was giving me proof! He was giving me glimpses of the future so I’d believe him! The visions—they’re real, don’t you see?”

He watched his professors exchange a look during his speech, and what he saw didn’t encourage him. “You don’t believe me!” He stood, stepping over the glass on the floor so that he’d have room to pace. “It’s true! I swear! How could I have seen exactly what you were both saying…and in the same conversation, too!”

“Harry,” Dumbledore began soothingly, “We believe that _you_ believe your visions to be true. Please understand…we cannot put absolute faith in the infallibility of these dreams based on one conversation about sugar plum pudding.”

Harry paced faster, and he was ashamed to feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. They had to believe him. They just had to!

They had to, because, to tell the truth…Harry was scared. He didn’t know what was going on, or what to believe, and he couldn’t handle this one alone. He needed his professors. He needed Dumbledore…and…he needed Snape too, though he couldn’t have explained why if asked. He just did.

“Harry, please sit. You’ll wear a hole in your own feet if you continue on with your pacing. We’ll talk this through. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I swear to you.”

_Tell Dumbledore…tell Dumbledore._ The words were repeating over and over through Harry’s mind. Other Harry had told him to tell Dumbledore something. What was it? What was he supposed to tell him?

“Potter, sit down,” came a surprisingly gentle voice. Harry stopped. He’d heard that voice before. Well, of course he had; it was Snape’s. But he was shocked by the distinct thought that he’d heard that gentleness in his voice before. Not awake—not ever awake. In a dream, maybe? But he couldn’t pinpoint it.

His head was hurting, and his feet were hurting. So he heeded the comforting and strange tone of the familiar voice and sat down.

_Tell Dumbledore…tell Dumbledore…_

And all at once, it hit him.

The prophecy!

He raised his head, looking into Dumbledore’s eyes to say what he needed to say. He forced himself to speak calmly and deliberately, “Professor, you have to listen to me. In my dream, he gave me a message to tell you. He told me there was another prophecy, one made after Voldemort gave me this scar. He said you didn’t show it to me because you knew it wasn’t about me; it was about someone else.”

As soon as Harry said those words, he knew that it was true. Dumbledore’s face betrayed it. As good as he was at hiding his emotions when needed, the headmaster could not have expected for Harry to say what he had said. His eyes betrayed his shock. And, as unsettling as it was to see, Harry also saw a tinge of fear.

He continued, more confident now that he _knew_ his dream self had been right. “He said to tell you about him—about the Other Harry. And he said to tell you that he’d seen the future unfold, and to let the prophecy run its course. And he said…he said you’d be able to explain the rest.” He was breathless by the end, but he nonetheless held his breath to see how Dumbledore would respond.

The room was silent for several long moments before Snape finally questioned incredulously, “It’s not true, of course, Albus? The sheer impossibility of it being true…”

“It is true,” confirmed Dumbledore, rising to his feet and vanishing the broken glass with a flick of his wand before walking deliberately back to his own seat. He said nothing, simply thinking behind unfocused eyes.

“B—but that’s impossible!” Snape protested. “He could not have known…I did not even know!”

“I did, though!” Harry insisted, as if he hadn’t already proved that he did. “I saw it in my dream! Do you believe me now?”

Snape looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Are you suggesting that you are a Seer, Potter? You cannot possibly be! Not only are the vast majority of them frauds, you’ve never shown a smidgen of the sheer power or talent that a true Seer would be required to possess!”

“Just because you only see me in Potions!” Harry shot back defensively. “I’m good at Defense! Best in my year, in fact! But you don’t bother to note that, do you?”

“I note what I see, Potter. And what I see is an arrogant child who has blown up a few too many cauldrons in my classroom—”

“I’m not—”

“Stop,” Dumbledore interrupted, not loudly, but it had the desired effect. Both Snape and Harry recognized the power behind that softly spoken word and fell silent. The headmaster looked between the two younger wizards, studying each in turn. At least Harry could tell that he wasn’t the only one being made uncomfortable by the scrutiny. Snape shifted under the man’s gaze.

“Both of you will listen to me, and listen well,” Dumbledore said in the same low, powerful voice. Harry felt that after hearing him speak in that simultaneously caring and dangerous tone, he wouldn’t have been able to interrupt if he’d tried.

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, eyes focused solely on him, “your history with Professor Snape has not been one filled with affection or understanding, to say the least. However, while you are under Professor Snape’s authority, you will speak to him with respect, whether you feel it or not.” Dumbledore’s eyes began to blaze, and Harry leaned as far back into his chair as he could manage. “Please remember that he has taken on the challenging responsibility of seeing to your welfare this summer. He did, in fact, risk his own life earlier this summer in the pursuit of seeing to your safety. That, if nothing else, should command your respect, if not your trust.”

Harry lowered his head. What Dumbledore said was true. Snape _had_ saved his life…on more than one occasion. It didn’t make the man any easier to deal with, but...it did make Harry feel properly ashamed to hear Dumbledore put it all out on the table like that.

“And Severus,” Dumbledore turned to Snape, “You were wrong about Harry’s home life. You, yourself, have admitted as much to me. Might it not be possible that there is yet more about Harry that you may have been mistaken in believing? Do consider it. And whether or not you do, in fact, discover Harry to be the decent human being I know him to be, consider acting the part of responsible adult.”

Snape didn’t look at all close to an apology, but he certainly looked as if he knew not to provoke the headmaster by arguing. “Certainly, headmaster,” he murmured, putting on his familiar inscrutable mask.

Dumbledore’s furious gaze swept over them once more before softening. “The both of you have such potential, you know. If you could only put aside your differences, you could learn so much from each other.”

Neither Harry nor Snape made any comment in response, but then, they didn’t need to. Dumbledore sighed. “One can only try.” His fury left as quickly as it had come, though he was not quite done speaking his mind. “Promise me at least that you will not inflict too much harm on each other before I arrive next. If not for the people that you care about, at least for the value you both have to the war effort?”

Harry glanced at Snape. He felt like saying, _if he will, I will_ , but…that seemed a little childish under the circumstances. So instead, he issued a mumbled and contrite, “yes, sir.”

“Severus?” Dumbledore prodded.

“I will if he will,” Snape responded with a smirk.

“Severus,” Dumbledore scolded, and Harry felt strangely torn between anger and laughter, of all things.

“Of course, Albus,” Snape drawled reassuringly. “I fully intend to ensure that Mr. Potter arrives at Hogwarts unscathed for the upcoming school year.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Professor?” Harry ventured hesitantly before Dumbledore could veer them into another direction of conversation.

“Yes, Harry?”

“So…um, back to…what…what about my dreams? Do you think I’m a…Seer?” He had a hard time forming the word, his own experience with Seers being limited to Trelawney’s strange mix of phony death predictions and two true visions.

Dumbledore drew a hand across his forehead to rub his temple, then proceeded slowly. “There are a great many fraudulent Seers in this world, Harry. There are only a small number of wizards or witches who can genuinely claim to see the future. I have only met a small handful, myself.” He paused, deep in thought, and studied him for a long moment. “Of the Seers I have been so fortunate to meet, and of the others I have heard tell or read accounts, I have never heard of a Seer experiencing visions quite such as yours.”

Harry felt his heart sink in disappointment. It wasn’t that he necessarily wanted Dumbledore to say he was a Seer, but he did really want to know what was going on.

“You claim to have met a vision of yourself,” Dumbledore continued, “and this vision of yourself claimed to be a _part_ of yourself?”

Harry nodded, remembering more. “He said he was the part of me that I’d only see in dreams, ‘cause when I’m awake, I’m too distracted. He said he was the part of me who could see the future…”

“And did he comment that you may become aware of him during your waking hours at any point in time?”

“Um…” Harry tried to remember if Other Harry had said anything like that… “Uh, yeah.” It was amazing, now that he remembered the bit about the prophecy, how much was rushing back to him. It was like…maybe a part of himself has been holding the memories for him, so he’d be able to recall them. “He said that someday I’d be fully aware, but not yet. He said I wasn’t ready, because I’m…not all the way grown up yet.” Harry couldn’t bring himself to call himself a child, like his dream version had done. _Six_ was a child, not sixteen.

Dumbledore didn’t say anything for a few moments, his eyes alight with understanding.

Harry didn’t dare break the silence, but Snape didn’t have any such reservations. He impatiently gestured for the headmaster to continue. “You know something. Suspense is not desired, nor appreciated, Albus.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, deep in thought, “My personal experience with Seers is not vast, as I have just explained to you, Harry. But I should also note that I have never personally encountered an underage witch or wizard with the gift. There are always exceptions to the rule, of course, but from my humble observations, it seems that most Seers have come by their abilities whilst in their majority. Those who have acquired the gift young have usually done so under extraordinary circumstances...and after manifesting astonishing capabilities in other areas.”

“But…there are exceptions?” Harry asked.

“There are nearly always exceptions to commonly held rules, Harry. That is what keeps us on our toes. Of course,” Dumbledore continued, his eyes betraying a hint of excitement, “we cannot know precisely the nature of these dreams with so little to go on. However, if they do at some point prove you to be a Seer, I could venture a guess at why you have experienced them in such a way.”

Harry endured another moment of infuriating silence before asking impatiently, “Well, what’s the reason, then?”

“He is a child, still…” Snape spoke without waiting for the headmaster, working it out on his own. “If he truly does possess the talent, he is perhaps not ready for the gift to manifest itself.”

Harry managed to stop himself from denying the ‘child’ comment, and Dumbledore nodded before explaining, “You see, Harry, Seers are thought to possess an Inner Eye from birth. That Inner Eye is said to lay dormant until the witch or wizard is emotionally and magically mature enough for it to fully manifest itself into their consciousness. Needless to say, it is also theorized that there are many would-be Seers out there who never have and never will reach the point of development necessary in order to discover or to be fully aware of their gifts.”

“Oh. That’s, um…really confusing. Even if it sort of makes sense.” Harry wrinkled his brow. “So…you _do_ think I’m a Seer, then? That my, er… _Inner Eye_ is…manifesting itself?”

“Hardly,” Snape again broke in. “This is not the way in which an ‘Inner Eye’ manifests itself, Potter. What the headmaster is getting at is the possibility that your Inner Eye has discovered a need for you to come to a realization of your abilities far beyond the time when you will be fully prepared to deal with them. It may be, in fact,” he added smugly, “telling you that you are _not_ yet mature or powerful enough to handle it.”

“Then why show itself to me at all? Why the theatrics?”

“Perhaps it has seen something too important to ignore,” came Dumbledore’s simple answer. “Perhaps in light of the importance of sharing its message with you, that inner part of yourself has found a way to guide you through it.”

Harry could barely process it all. “So my…that part of me…is trying to make it easy on me? Show me what to do with these visions? Because it doesn’t think I can handle them on my own?”

“That is my supposition, yes.”

“Oh. I, uh…have to think about all that, I guess,” Harry offered. “Ugh, I have a headache,” he added with a groan as he sunk into his chair. From the smirk he saw cross Snape’s face, Harry just knew the professor had been about to make some snarky comment about how taxing it was for Harry’s minuscule brain to think so much in one day. But he hadn’t said it, no doubt due to not wanting another tongue lashing from the headmaster.

“I am leaving you with quite a bit to think about, I believe,” Dumbledore said slowly, “but then, you have given me quite a bit to think about as well. An amazing turn of events, this. Truly amazing…”

“Yeah…but, professor?” Harry’s head really did hurt from this never ending talk of dreams and Seers, but that didn’t matter in light of something he really, really wanted to know. “What about the prophecy? You said…you said it was real?”

Dumbledore sighed, but his eyes didn’t meet Harry’s; they searched out Snape’s instead. “I don’t suppose there is any point in belaboring under the pretense that this prophecy will go unheard…not now that two more wizards are aware of its existence.” He pulled his eyes away from Snape and rose, gliding thoughtfully over to the fireplace. He grasped a handful of floo powder before turning round to address his Potions professor, “Severus, I must fetch something from my office. Might I ask you to answer any further questions for Harry until I return?”

“Certainly, headmaster,” Snape softly replied, and Dumbledore left the drawing room in a whirl of green floo powder and a shouted location of the headmaster’s office, Hogwarts.

Silence descended upon the room, and when neither wizard made a move to break the silence, Harry finally figured that Snape didn’t intend to acknowledge his presence at all. It was strange actually, Harry reflected, how he wasn’t even angry about it this time. He couldn’t really seem to hate the professor right then, not with his usual malice, anyway. And it wasn’t because things had really changed between the two of them. It was just…Harry had so much else to think about, hatred didn’t stand out at the forefront of his mind in terms of importance.

Left with only his headache and an ever-lingering curiosity, he swept a cursory glance over his professor before clearing his throat to carefully question, “So, all that talk about Inner Eyes and Seers and my dreams…do _you_ think that’s what it is, professor?”

Snape didn’t answer right away, and from the glimmer in his eyes when he heard the question directed at himself, Harry figured he was surprised that he’d been consulted. Well, Harry reflected, he was surprised at himself, too. But even if he wasn’t sure why, he wanted to know what Snape thought of the whole thing.

Maybe it was Snape’s surprise that caused him to answer so candidly, or maybe it was the practice he’d had in answering Harry’s questions during their Q&A sessions, as Harry had taken to thinking of them. Whatever the reason, he responded without malice, even though his words could have suggested otherwise, “I do not…disagree with the headmaster, though I personally have never seen evidence that you have the aptitude for one of the most intricate of abilities to master. However,” he added, looking Harry directly in the eye, “I do believe that these visions cannot go unmonitored. Until we have more evidence in hand, there remains the possibility that the Dark Lord is, in fact, behind them.”

Harry nodded, sighing at the forthright answer. Though he was becoming more and more certain that these dreams weren’t anything to do with Voldemort, he was learning little by little that it never hurt to be careful.

Yes, he decided. He’d be careful. He wanted to believe in these dreams, but “I’ll be careful,” he promised aloud. “I’ll be careful what I believe, and I’ll report any more dreams as soon as I have them.”

“Immediately,” Snape added authoritatively.

“Um, yeah…” Harry thought for a minute, really not wanting to ask this question, but seeing the necessity for it. “About that. Not that I’m planning on having more visions or dreams, but…if I do, and seeing as Professor Dumbledore made me promise tell you about it…day or night… Um, see…well, I don’t exactly know where your room is, professor.”

Snape crossed his arms, and as the beginnings of a sneer showed on the professor’s face, Harry figured he must have overstepped some invisible boundary. Snape had been pretty calm… _almost_ nice, even, in helping Harry figure out his visions…but apparently disclosing the location of his private sleeping quarters was too much to ask.

“If you should have need of me during the night,” Snape sneered slightly, “You have only to call for your dear, devoted house-elf to summon me.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry managed not to flush. He supposed he should have thought of that.

He was saved from further efforts at conversation by Dumbledore’s return. The headmaster stepped out in a small cloud of swirling floo powder and soot, familiar Pensieve in hand. Harry watched with rising anticipation as the headmaster carefully set the Pensieve on the table between them and rose to his full height.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said softly, “I would like to speak with Harry alone for a few moments, if you don’t mind.”

Snape nodded, immediately rising to his feet. He didn’t look put out at the dismissal; he looked, in fact, as though he had been expecting it. Still, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what was going through the Potions master’s mind as he calmly exited the room, closing the door behind him. All Harry knew was that if he had been as much as told that he couldn’t hear the latest mysterious secret Dumledore had been keeping, he wouldn’t have taken it quite so calmly as Snape just had.

But then, working so closely with Dumbledore, Snape was probably used to accepting that secrets were being kept from him.

Dumbledore remained standing as he surveyed Harry, and after a moment, he spoke softly, as if he was relaying a child’s bedtime story and not the mysteries surrounding wars and prophecies. “I have explained to you the prophecy I heard before your birth, and I thank you for relaying to me the prophecy you yourself heard from Professor Trelawney’s own lips during your third year at Hogwarts. While I always knew that I would someday be pressed upon to explain that first prophecy to you, I need to make something absolutely clear between us, Harry…” He waited for Harry’s nod before continuing. “If I, and not you, had heard Professor Trelawney’s prediction during your third year, I would not have shared it with you.”

Harry furrowed his brow, half put out and half in general confusion. What did this have to do with another prophecy?

“I tell you, this, Harry,” continued the headmaster, “not to offend you or to dampen your spirits. I tell you this so that you may understand the important distinctions that must be made when deciding when, how, and with whom, to share information of this nature.”

“I don’t really understand what you’re getting at, headmaster,” Harry confessed.

“I shared with you the first prophecy,” Dumbledore explained patiently, “because it was about you. You had a right to know, and _I_ knew, even when you were quite young and even when I did not want to, that someday I would relay its contents to you. The contents of the prophecy which you overheard, however, did _not_ concern you. Knowing that Voldemort’s servant would rejoin him and assist him in his rise would have been more a matter for the Order, not for a thirteen-year old boy…particularly as you had no way of knowing for certain to which servant the prophecy referred. Do you understand?”

“This is your way of explaining why you never told me about this other prophecy,” Harry answered, growing impatient at all of the introductory talking. “Other Harry already told me that—he said you didn’t tell me about the prophecy because it wasn’t about me; it was about somebody else.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, a sadness entering his eyes. “However…I must admit that I have not relayed the contents of this prophecy to even the individual about whom it concerns.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t comment on that, but instead asked, “Was this prophecy made by Professor Trelawney, too?” At Dumbledore’s nod, he probed further, “And it was made to you, then?”

“No. No, this was relayed to Professor McGonagall shortly after events were starting to settle back to normal after the first war. She was caught quite unawares, I believe,” Dumbledore elaborated, a slight twinkle entering his eyes. “Although she has held rather firmly to the belief that Divination is not the most exacting of arts, despite her rather close experience with the relating of prophecy.”

“Professor McGonagall...” He grinned. The image of the straight laced professor being confronted with a prophecy-spouting Trelawney was pretty funny. “So she told you, then.”

Dumbledore nodded in confirmation. “She came to me at once with the prophecy, which I saw through use of a Pensieve. Now, granted, this prophecy, as with the one in your third year, could not compare with the thrill of triumph I experienced upon hearing the very first prophecy. The knowledge that one would soon be born with the ability to vanquish Lord Voldemort once and for all…well, nothing could quite compete with hearing tell of that firsthand, now could it?”

“I suppose not,” Harry answered out of politeness.

“I…well, perhaps we should view the prophecy before further explanations?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically, more than ready to finally have his curiosity satisfied.

Dumbledore drew out a silvery strand of memory from his head as Harry had seen him do before, and no sooner had Harry time to process that he was about to view the long-awaited second prophecy, than the ghost-like figure of Sibyll Trelawney drifted to hover half out of the Pensieve. As Harry listened, the figure spoke in the familiar harsh, hoarse tones Harry had heard before:

“THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN…HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN BOUND BY TWO MASTERS…AND THE SERVANT WILL CHOOSE ONE MASTER OVER THE OTHER…AND ENEMY WILL BECOME ALLY AND ALLY WILL BECOME ENEMY…FOR THE SERVANT’S ROLE IN THE WAR IS GREAT…HE WILL GUIDE THE VICTOR AND DECEIVE THE VANQUISHED…THE DARK LORD’S SERVANT WILL BE BOUND BY TWO MASTERS…”

And as Harry watched, the figure swirled within the mist of memory before falling back to vanish into the Pensieve.

Neither wizard spoke for a moment, as Harry tried to make sense of it.

Dumbledore broke the silence, speaking in soft, hushed tones, “You can imagine Professor McGonagall’s shock and my own sorrow at hearing in plain language that Lord Voldemort had not gone forever, but would, in fact, return to resume his war of terror. I had suspected as much, of course, but even I had not truly shaken off the hope that those suspicions would be eventually proved untrue.”

He paused a moment, perhaps to allow Harry to speak, but he resumed his speech when Harry made no move to speak. “I believe the prophecy to be speaking of Severus Snape, as you may have guessed. The prophecy alludes to a servant of Voldemort who was bound by two masters during the first war. Severus, to my rather comprehensive knowledge, is the only Death Eater to legitimately and also, at the end of that war, to simultaneously have worked for the causes of both sides of light and dark.”

“What…what about Peter Pettigrew?” Harry asked through his suddenly dry throat.

Dumbledore conjured a glass of water and levitated it to Harry. “Pettigrew was not working for the side of the light, despite our misunderstanding of his alliances. He, in fact, had no ‘master,’ as it were, other than Lord Voldemort himself. He was not bound to two masters…not in the way which Professor Snape chose to bind himself to both Lord Voldemort and to me.” Dumbledore stopped to take a sip from his own glass.

“Is that why you trust Professor Snape so much? Because you heard that prophecy say that he would ‘guide the victor’?”

Dumbledore looked reluctant to veer the conversation into that direction, but after a short pause, he relented. “That is part of it, yes. But understand, Harry. I only heard the prophecy after I had already heard his story and believed him.”

“So what was so convincing about his story, then?” Harry persisted.

“The content of that conversation always has been and always will be a matter between Professor Snape and myself, Harry. I will ask you not to question me further in that regard.” Dumbledore’s tone was rebuking, and Harry knew better than to probe further.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured. “But besides that. How do you really know which side he’s chosen? The prophecy didn’t say. Even if he is on our side now, he could still decide to switch, couldn’t he?”

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “As I have said before, Harry, I believe that Professor Snape is on the right side of the war. But even if he weren’t, ask yourself: in light of the prophecy, is not the wisest course of action to draw him in rather than forcing him to the other side? I am not sure if you noticed the finality of the prophecy, Harry, but while the one regarding you does not state who is to win this war, the second one unequivocally states that the side which Professor Snape chooses _will_ have the victory.”

Dumbledore allowed Harry to absorb that, then added in soft tones, “I did not want to discuss this with you, Harry, I admit freely. I did not want to burden you, especially as I know where you believe Professor Snape’s loyalties to be. I had hoped that the both of you would come to resolve your differences on your own. I believed the prophecy meant that he would be able to guide you—you, the ‘victor’ referred to in the prophecy—and that he would be the key to unlocking your power to defeat Voldemort. I wanted it to be true to such a degree that I forced you both to work together last year instead of letting you come to an understanding on your own. My interference made matters worse, I am afraid.” Dumbledore’s eyes filled with regret, and he looked very old to Harry.

Harry didn’t know what to say. There was too much to think about. His brain was full, and his head was still hurting from trying to sort it all out. He wasn’t even sure whether he wanted to be angry at yet more secrets kept from him by the headmaster. Even if it _was_ mostly about somebody else.

“Sir,” he began tentatively. He had started speaking but wasn’t really sure what he wanted to say. “Will… Um, you said you haven’t told Professor Snape about this prophecy. Are you going to tell him, sir?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes and brought his hands to his head, massaging his temples. He then stood and began pacing the room. “I’ve thought about it many times. Don’t think I don’t know how I may be judged for this someday, Harry. Too many secrets are a horrible part of war, but they are a vital part as well.

“When I first heard this prophecy, I didn’t even consider sharing it with him.” Dumbledore was still pacing, not looking anywhere in particular. Harry wondered if he remembered who he was talking to. “He was young, so young, and just out of a tormenting service to a dark master. He had lost so much… He needed to be free, not to have the burden of deciding the fate of another war on his shoulders. But most of all, I wanted his decisions to be his own, not reactions to prophecy. I decided that not telling him was for the best.

“Then Voldemort returned. I suppose I could have confided in him then. But by then, I…found that I had grown to care about him, you see. We had something of a rocky beginning, but over the years I have become a mentor to him. We do not always agree, but he trusts me, looks up to me. I could not bear to lose that trust. And so, perhaps selfishly, I kept silent. I…hope that he will forgive me for that.”

Dumbledore turned his gaze on Harry, his eyes asking for understanding. And Harry knew, looking into those sorrowful eyes, that the older wizard had done many questionable things in pursuit of what he considered a greater good. Things he never expected to be forgiven for. But he had done them nonetheless, because the decisions had to be made, and he was the one to make them.

Harry felt a sudden overwhelming relief that he didn’t have that responsibility on his own shoulders. He was expected by many to destroy Voldemort, a great feat, yes, but he was responsible for just that part of the war. Dumbledore felt responsible for it all, and he would likely be resented or hated by many of those he had tried to protect.

Like Harry.

He had heard enough for one night. He couldn’t think, and he couldn’t stop thinking, all at the same time. He nodded and stood up from his chair.

“I’d like to turn in now, sir… Is that alright?” Harry questioned. Both were exhausted, and Dumbledore looked a bit relieved, though at the reprieve from more talking or the fact that he hadn’t had to deal with another tantrum, Harry wasn’t sure.

“Yes, of course, Harry.” Dumbledore took a deep breath. “On your way upstairs, perhaps you would be so good as to ask Professor Snape to return to the drawing room? I believe it is time for him and me to have a long overdue conversation.”

Harry nodded, feeling a twinge of pity for the headmaster as he examined his tired face. Harry had no idea how Snape would react to being told the prophecy—the professor hated being lied to, but he also understood and respected the importance of secrets. Harry just hoped that Dumbledore didn’t have another angry, shouting wizard on his hands. He didn’t look like he could take much more of that today.

Harry turned to leave, but Dumbledore stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Harry gave him a questioning look.

“Harry…whatever the secrets or problems or enmity we have known in the war, you must let me say something.” Dumbledore looked intently at him, seemingly trying to will Harry to not just hear his words, but truly consider them. “Professor Snape knows more about the way Lord Voldemort thinks than anyone else in the Order, Harry. More, even, than his other Death Eaters. If anyone is ideal in helping you to learn how to defeat him, it is him. I would think that even if I had never heard the prophecy.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and Harry simply nodded again, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment. He would contemplate that later, after he’d had a chance to soak everything else in.

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

This time when he turned to leave, Dumbledore let him go. The headmaster was standing in the same place, unmoving, as Harry closed the door behind him.

The hallway was empty, and a faint light shone from underneath the closed kitchen door. Harry barely glanced at Professor Snape as he opened the kitchen door to relay Dumbledore’s summons. That done, he made his way slowly up the stairs to his bedroom. The thought of the Wall Watcher entered his mind, but he shoved it away. It had been one thing to spy on the two men when they were discussing Harry’s relatives and his summer fate. The conversation that was about to occur was between Dumbledore and Snape, and it didn’t feel right to eavesdrop this time.

If he’d been less overwhelmed by this, the longest of days, he might have thought to request a visit from his friends to get some of the more puzzling pieces of information he’d gleaned today off his chest. Hermione would probably have some good insights about Seers, even if Divination wasn’t her cup of tea. Harry would only need to say the word and she’d check out every book in Britain that mentioned the phrase “Inner Eye.”

But instead of dwelling on that, he gratefully collapsed onto his bed as soon as he reached his bedroom. Before the darkness of sleep claimed him, his last lingering thought was that any more _thinking_ could most definitely wait until tomorrow.


	18. A Lesson in Being Slytherin

After having relayed in nearly excruciating detail every important dream he’d had since the beginning of summer, Harry counted himself fortunate to not have a single dream the entire night following that conversation—not even an ordinary nightmare.

Of course, that could have to do with the fact that he was unable to sleep for more than an hour or so at a stretch. Honestly, if waking up in the middle of the night nearly nose to nose with Dobby before the little house-elf had Disapparated hadn’t given Harry a heart attack, the swift popping of house-elf Apparition every subsequent time he opened his eyes was nearly enough to send him into a state of paranoia.

“Dobby!” Harry called out the fourth time such an incident happened, and sure enough, the wide-eyed house-elf appeared with an immediate pop. Harry turned on a light near his bed in the mostly-dark room.

“Harry Potter called for Dobby, sir?” Dobby gave a little hop to show his willingness to be of service, and Harry almost caught himself reaching forward to stop the tower of hats from falling to the ground. Amazingly though, every last hat landed perfectly in place on top of the little house-elf’s head.

Harry sat up on his bed, annoyance chasing away his amusement. “Dobby, what in Merlin’s name have you been doing popping in and out of my room all night?”

Dobby had been eagerly bouncing on the heels of his feet, but at Harry’s exasperated tone, he promptly stopped, eyes opening wide. “Is…is Harry Potter angry with Dobby, sir?”

Harry was tempted to say yes, except for Dobby’s huge earnest eyes staring up at him. Harry sighed. Dobby would probably throw himself out the window or give himself a concussion on the bedpost if Harry wasn’t careful.

“No, Dobby, I’m not angry. I just want to know what’s going on. Did you need me for something? You could have just woken me, you know.”

Dobby stared at him in dismay. “Dobby is not to wake Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is to check on Harry Potter every night, sir, but he is being ordered not to wake you!”

“Check on me?” Harry wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘check on me’?”

“Professor Snape is ordering Dobby to tell him immediately if Harry Potter is having bad dreams!”

“Professor Snape?” Ah. The visions. Snape probably wanted to make certain Harry was telling him whenever he had one. Well, that figured. Snape didn’t trust Harry, so of course he’d send in a spy. Now Harry was _really_ annoyed. “Well, um…he can’t have meant standing constant vigil, can he, Dobby?”

“Dobby did not ask, sir! Dobby will ask him right now!”

“No!” Harry held out his hand to stop the house-elf from leaving. “No, Dobby, don’t. I’m, um…sure he must still be sleeping.” Harry didn’t want to have anything to do with Snape losing sleep.

“Professor Snape is not sleeping, sir. He woke several minutes ago. Dobby knows; Dobby made Professor Snape breakfast, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Oh.” Come to think of it, breakfast sounded good… Looking out his window, he could see that it was still dark. Remembering Snape’s rule about wandering the house at night, he wondered if he was even allowed. He wasn’t willing to chance a turn at cleaning leeches to find out.

He took in Dobby’s helpful stance appraisingly.

“Dobby, if I ask you to relay a message to Professor Snape, do you think you can remember it? Word for word?”

Dobby puffed out his little chest, eager to prove himself. “Dobby can remember hundreds of words if they be for Harry Potter, sir!”

“Okay, I need you to tell Professor Snape that, out of respect for his authority and the rules he has set for me this summer, I’ve sent you to ask him if I can leave my room before sunrise. Oh, and tell him I sounded really respectful when I asked.”

Dobby looked slightly confused when he popped out to deliver the message, but pop out he did.

Harry only had to wait a few minutes for Dobby to return, but he wasted no time changing clothes and freshening up a bit. He hadn’t eaten any of the food Dumbledore had laid out last night, and he was absolutely starving now. Images of eggs and bacon and toast and muffins and every other breakfast food imaginable were floating through his head, and by the time Dobby reappeared, he figured he could have eaten an entire table full of food.

“Well?” Harry asked the house-elf eagerly.

Dobby squinted his too-large eyes in an attempt to not mix anything up. “Professor Snape is sending Dobby to ‘inform Mr. Potter that his respect will come in handy when Professor Snape tells him to read ten chapters in his Occlo…Occulmenancy book as soon as he is finished eating.’”

Harry stared, dread and annoyance fighting for equal consideration within him. That book again? That big, fat, boring book was all he had to look forward to for the rest of holiday?

He licked his lips, fighting off his hunger. “Tell the professor that I’ve decided to stay in my room for a bit longer, to…er, work on those Occlumency techniques from chapter five.”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby exclaimed as he quickly disappeared to relay his newest message.

Dobby was gone little more than a minute this time. When he reappeared, his face was hidden behind a book nearly half his own size. His muffled voice drifted to Harry, “Dobby is bringing your book, Harry Potter, sir. Professor Snape is saying that Harry Potter will need it, as ‘chapter five is not nudged in between chapters one and two.’ And Professor Snape is telling Dobby to tell Harry Potter that he will be quizzed on his efforts over breakfast, sir.”

“Great,” Harry muttered, wishing he’d never started this whole thing. And thinking of a few choice words he’d really like to have Dobby relay for him…only, he’d never say those particular words to Dobby.

“Thanks, Dobby,” he muttered and lifted the book out of the hands of the grateful, tired house-elf. “Tell Professor Snape I can’t wait.”

“Yes, Harry Potter!” Dobby called tiredly before popping out to relay the message. Snape apparently deemed that last message not worthy of a response, as Dobby didn’t return.

Harry lay on his bed, turning the pages in the book directly to chapter five without so much as peering at chapter four. If he was to be quizzed that very morning, he wasn’t about to waste his time on the boring, useless stuff before he got to what he really needed to know.

_Chapter Five: Non-Magical Techniques for Clearing One’s Mind_

_Strengthening one’s mind through practical exercises in mental discipline is a prerequisite to developing a proficiency in one of the mental arts. The first step in acquiring a disciplined mind is to perfect the skill of clearing one’s mind from outside influences. While the way by which this may be achieved is not universal for each witch or wizard, the following exercises…_

By the time Harry finished the introductory page and read through the first three exercises, he was starting to feel a bit better about this whole Occlumency thing. The book was still fairly annoying, but the exercises it mentioned didn’t sound so bad. In fact, they were downright simple.

Exercise One recommended laying on one’s back, breathing in and out, counting to 100 with each breath. It would force him to focus his mind on one thing, the book said, pushing everything else out of his mind. Well, he shrugged. Why not?

So he lay back, nestling comfortably onto his unmade bed.

In…one.

Out…two.

In...three. This wasn’t so hard!

Out…four. Simple, in fact. Why hadn’t he just tried this earlier?

In…five.

Out…six. His leg felt itchy.

In…seven. Was he allowed to scratch it or did he have to keep going?

Out…eight.

In…nine. How long did he have to do this?

Out…wait. Was this nine or ten?

In…he’d lost count. How was he supposed to clear his mind if he lost count? Harry opened his eyes. Somehow he didn’t think this was what mental discipline was supposed to feel like.

After trying it once again with similar results, he promptly gave up. It was a stupid exercise, he decided.

Exercise Two said to focus on a pleasant thought or memory, then to make his surroundings as close to that thought as he could. For instance, if he thought of a moonlit night, turn off all lights save one high in the room. Then he was supposed to close his eyes and imagine everything about that place—sights, sounds, smells—and imagine himself so deeply in that thought or memory that he forgot all thought of the here and now.

Sounded pretty weird, Harry thought, but he figured he had better try. So he thought…and thought. It was pretty pleasant to be on a broom, he knew, but how would he set up his room so that he felt like he was flying? He couldn’t very well bring up a Muggle fan to blow in his face. He discarded several more thoughts before he settled on the memory of his cupboard. It shouldn’t be pleasant, he knew, and he had been locked in against his will so many times that it really wasn’t, but…a lot of times it was also his safe place, a place where he could hide away from the Dursleys.

And it _was_ pleasant, in a way, Harry reflected, because it was the only place in the whole of his childhood that he could claim as his own.

So he threw all but one sheet and a pillow away from him and lay on his side, curling his knees up to his chest like he’d done so many times in his cupboard. He reached over to turn off the bedside light, and there was just enough light in the room that Harry knew the sun was about to start its ascent in the sky. Thankfully, it was still almost completely dark, though still not as dark as the cupboard could get sometimes.

He closed his eyes, imagining the musty smell of the small room under the stairs. He imagined the spiders and the old sheets and his broken, second-hand toys. He reveled in the memory that even if they were all second-hand, they were his. _His_ broken toys, _his_ hole-filled sheets, and _his_ tiny, musty cupboard. He felt the small glow inside that he had felt when he was only five years old, laying his inner claim on the things that Dudley didn’t want anymore, while at the same time being careful not to show his pleasure at the ratty old things, for fear that Dudley might see his happiness and decide he wanted the things back...

Dudley, the spoiled son of the people who should have loved Harry, too…

Why couldn’t they have shown Harry love? Or even just treated him better than a mangy stray they’d been forced to keep around? It wasn’t that they weren’t capable of love; they were certainly capable of loving Dudley. Wasn’t Harry worthy of their love?

Yes. Yes, he was worthy of love. His parents had loved him. Sirius had loved him.

But did they count? They were all dead. Would they still have loved him if they’d stuck around to see him grow up? Nobody else did. No adult, that is. Well, maybe the Weasleys. Not the same way they loved their own kids though. Mrs. Weasley might deny that, but Harry knew they had enough to be going on with for their own seven children to be filling in for Harry’s missing parents. Then there was Remus. Remus cared about him. Harry knew he did…but it wasn’t like it was with Sirius. With Remus, the caring was mixed with obligation, maybe even guilt, like…almost like Remus thought he _should_ love Harry more than he actually _did_.

Harry instantly felt a deep pang of self-reproach at the thought. The kind man had done so much for Harry. He was a good teacher, a good friend. But…on the other hand, if Remus really cared about Harry, then why had he knowingly put Harry’s life at risk for most of third year rather than tell Dumbledore about Sirius being an Animagus? Why hadn’t he bothered telling Harry that he was a friend of his dad’s until he’d had to? He hadn’t even offered to tutor Harry; Harry had had to beg him. He probably wouldn’t have even said good-bye before leaving at the end of term, except that Harry had rushed to intercept him. It was Sirius, not Remus, who offered him a new home and was willing to help him during the Triwizard Tournament. For all that Harry truly liked and respected his former DADA professor, he simply couldn’t ferret out whether anything Remus did do for him was out of genuine affection…or because he was a decent person who felt an obligation to be nice to James Potter’s son.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath at the direction of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d had pent up inside him about Remus until the thoughts had all come rushing to the front of his mind. He forcefully pushed the horrible thoughts away and opened his eyes, deciding that he didn’t want to be in his cupboard any longer.

And anyway, what was Harry thinking? He wasn’t a five-year old in a musty old cupboard, craving parental love. He was older now; he knew better. And anyway, he didn’t need it anymore…not like he did back then.

A glance at Exercise Three didn’t excite him in his present state of mind, so he committed the exercise to memory, closed the book, and busied himself with throwing the discarded sheets back onto his bed.

Light was beginning to seep in through his window now. It was still too dark to chance leaving his room, but it was enough to remind Harry of his annoyance at Snape for always outsmarting him. It was also enough to remind his growling stomach of the food awaiting him at breakfast.

Food. That reminded him… Ugh. Well, no time like the present to toss out that old container of Mrs. Weasley’s dessert from his trunk. He just hoped he hadn’t left anything else in there that might start to grow something gross.

As soon as he opened his trunk, he realized if there was anything else in there, it would take quite a while to find it. His trunk was a mess of old and new school supplies, clothes, and miscellaneous wizarding gadgets he’d accumulated from birthday gifts and treks to Hogsmeade. At least it wasn’t as messy as it had been a few days ago: half of his trunk’s earlier contents were by now strewn across his Grimmauld Place room.

It only took a moment for him to locate the container of uneaten pudding, which was thankfully still sealed, and toss it. It was on top of the Advanced Defense Techniques book that Hermione had given him for his birthday. On a whim, he pulled out the book and placed it on his bedside table to flip through later. After that horrible book Snape and Dumbledore were making him read, he could use something a bit more interesting to read when he had the time.

He moved to close the lid to his trunk, when the rising light through his window caused something in the bottom of his trunk to glitter out at him. Curiosity won out as he reached his hand in to grab hold of whatever it was, but he immediately hissed in pain as he felt his hand slice against something ragged and sharp. He yanked back, cutting his hand still further on the ragged edge, and balled it into a fist. He blinked back tears.

He stood for another moment before cautiously reaching his other hand to discover what had cut him…and he pulled out a large, broken shard of glass. It was a piece of the mirror he’d thrown in the bottom of his school trunk at the end of last year, after Sirius had died.

He put it carefully back into his trunk and shut the lid, not really caring about the possibility of it cutting him again. He couldn’t throw it out.

His hand was bleeding and throbbing. He tried to uncurl his fist but curled it right back up again. Moving his fist hurt worse than clenching it. That much blood was normal, wasn’t it…?

Forcing himself finally to uncurl his fist a small bit, he quickly wrapped an old thin shirt of Dudley’s around it. The bleeding would stop soon enough; it always did when he hurt himself at the Dursleys. No Madam Pomfrey there, and he’d always been fine.

So he settled back on his bed in wait for the sun to completely rise, not planning for his eyes to slowly droop…or for them to close altogether, drawing him back into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

He woke from his unplanned nap to a pop, a squeak, and another pop. Dobby was the only explanation, he knew from the entire past night of pops in and out, but looking around, he could see that the house-elf was nowhere in his room.

That was odd, he mused tiredly as he rolled over, pulling a blanket over him as he did. He hadn’t woken up in time for Dobby to be leaving on account of being caught.

Before he could dwell on that thought for very long, his bedroom door swung open with such force that it slammed against the wall behind it, startling Harry. He caught himself from falling off the bed just in time to sit up in his mess of sheets and watch Professor Snape storm into the room, a wailing Dobby close on his heels.

Snape stopped just inside the room at Harry’s wide-eyed stare, and Harry was sure in that moment that he detected a bit of panic in the professor’s face, which quickly turned to relief, followed swiftly by a more familiar look: that of burgeoning rage.

Harry pulled the blanket up to his chin as a shield.

“Pray tell me, Mr. Potter,” Snape hissed, his eyebrows lowering so that his eyes were mere slits, “why, after your show of begging to be awake before the crack of dawn, you decided to have a lie in rather than performing a task so grueling as studying to preserve your own dubious sanity? And when you are through with that explanation, perhaps you will then enlighten me as to why, moments ago, I was hailed by a panicked house-elf lamenting your sudden and untimely demise?”

“D—demise?” Harry questioned, sleepy and confused. “I’m not dead.”

“So I unfortunately see,” Snape sneered. “Get out of bed this instant, Potter. You have wasted enough of the day with your irresponsible behavior.”

Harry was too confused still to argue; he threw off his blanket and swung his feet around to the side of the bed, but before he could land them on the floor, he was halted by a sharp intake of breath. Snape had gone paler than usual, and he was staring at Harry.

“What?” Harry asked self-consciously, even as with one downward glance, he answered his own question. His hand. The blood from his cut hand had soaked through the threadbare shirt he had wrapped around it, and the shirt he was wearing was likewise streaked with blood. Soaked, in a few spots.

It looked worse than it felt, although now that Harry thought about it, his hand _was_ throbbing pretty badly.

Overcoming his shock, Snape was upon him in an instant, ordering Dobby to his quarters to retrieve potions for pain and blood-replenishing.

“What did you do, Potter?” Snape pulled Harry’s hand from against his stomach, where he had been holding it, and unwrapped Harry’s makeshift bandage with angry, jerky movements. “What mischief could you possibly have found in your own bloody bedroom?”

Harry winced and pulled his hand from his professor’s grasp.

“Give it here, Potter!” Snape ordered.

“No!” Harry inched back on his bed until he was square against the headboard. He clutched his fist to his chest. “Why should I give you my hand when you’re only aiming to make it worse? In case you hadn’t realized, it hurts enough without you yanking at it!”

Snape sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, and Harry was amazed that the man actually seemed to be trying to calm himself. Since when did he bother to calm himself in Harry’s presence rather than just acting on his worst impulses?

“Give me your hand, Potter,” Snape repeated, only slightly calmer, holding out his own hand. “You are in need of medical attention, and I, unfortunately for us both, am the only one able to give it to you at the moment.”

Snape held out his hand until Harry was satisfied that he wasn’t planning to pounce on Harry to force him into submission. Throbbing hand finally getting the best of him, Harry cautiously inched forward, pausing another moment before begrudgingly holding out his clenched fist to Snape.

He let out a pained hiss as Snape pried his fingers open, though at least the professor did so gently this time. Harry looked along with Snape at his bloody hand and the cut that extended all the way from the underside of his middle finger to the contour of his hand, and down to the outside of his wrist. Harry almost forgot the pain for a moment, so surprised was he that he had cut his hand so far from one shard of broken mirror. No wonder there was so much blood.

“How did you do this?” Snape asked as he pulled out his wand to spell away enough blood so that he could properly assess the wound. The professor seemed less urgent, at least, now that he could see that this was no life threatening injury.

“Um, broken mirror. In my trunk. Cut myself,” Harry answered disjointedly through the pain of Snape’s gentle prodding. And this being so close to Snape was weird. It was bringing back the memories from when he’d woken up to Snape holding him after his nightmare at the Dursleys. Between the pain in his hand and Harry’s torn emotions from the total comfort he’d felt moments before he’d woken that time and the utter humiliation he’d felt in the moment after…well, it was all making him feel rather jumbled up.

He leaned back, eager to get away from being in quite so close proximity to Snape.

Dobby reappeared, with potions in hand, and Snape immediately sent him back for more supplies.

“Drink this,” Snape ordered as he held out a potion. At Harry’s questioning glance, he explained, “Blood-Replenishing Potion. Drink this one also for the pain.”

Harry did so quickly, not wanting to taste either potion.

Dobby reappeared with a small case, which Snape accepted before dismissing the house-elf. Dobby gave Harry one last wide-eyed, worry-filled gaze before disappearing.

“Are you injured anywhere else?” Snape asked, sorting through a collection of small vials and jars.

“No.”

Snape removed a small jar from the case and unscrewed the lid before scooping up a moderate amount of some sort of paste with two of his fingers. Replacing the lid on the jar, he reached again for Harry’s hand, spreading the paste over his long cut.

Harry hissed, though it was starting not to hurt so much, probably due to the potion he had been given for pain. But it still hurt when Snape pushed directly on the wound. It was all Harry could do not to pull his hand away again. At least the professor was spreading the paste over the cut gently, without his earlier angry movements.

“What reason did the Sorting Hat give for its desire to place you into Slytherin, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly as he finished spreading the paste over Harry’s hand and reached for a roll of bandages.

Harry was so baffled by the unexpected question that he took a moment to register it. “Wha…Is—is this your question, professor? The one I still owe you?”

“No,” Snape answered simply as he picked up his wand. With a flick of his wrist, bandages from the case started to wind themselves around Harry’s hand and wrist. “This is an ordinary, run of the mill, I-ask-you-and-you-answer-me question.”

“Oh. Well…” Harry ran over the list of attributes the Sorting Hat had told him he possessed, sifting through them for anything embarrassing or incriminating. He still remembered that pretty well, even if it had been nearly five years ago. It had meant the world to him to have been accepted by the Sorting Hat after being so worried that he’d been sent to Hogwarts by mistake, so yes, of course he remembered what it had said to him.

The bandage was finished wrapping around his hand, and Snape sat still on the edge of Harry’s bed, waiting for his response.

“It, um…said I could be great, and that Slytherin would help me on my way to greatness.”

“And did you not want to be great?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You distinctly told me that you chose not to be in Slytherin. Why ever not, if the Sorting Hat told you that being a Slytherin would help you to become great?”

“It wasn’t the only house I fit, you know. It said I had courage and a good mind, and talent, too. And a thirst to prove myself.”

“If you truly had a thirst to prove yourself, you would have chosen Slytherin,” Snape stated unequivocally.

“But I didn’t want to prove myself in that way,” Harry argued. “I didn’t want to go bad, and it just sounded like all the bad wizards came from Slytherin. And I didn’t want to be a bully, either. I had enough of being on the other end of things with Dudley and his gang.”

“Slytherin does not equal ‘bully,’ Potter.”

“Well, it did in my eleven-year old mind, okay?” Harry shot back, defensive. “And it’s not so far from the truth, now I’m older and still see Slytherin students and _professors_ ,” he emphasized pointedly, “bullying anybody younger or weaker.”

“I am prepared to ask my due question,” Snape announced, abruptly changing the topic and effectively ending Harry’s tirade.

“Oh…okay.” Better to just get this over with. Snape looked too serious, and not at all mocking, which was actually kind of worrisome. Harry braced himself for the question.

“You are an abused child, Mr. Potter.”

“Erm…” Harry didn’t like where this could be going, but he felt powerless to stop it.

“You have been demeaned, starved, beaten—”

“They never actually beat me—”

Snape ignored him, “—imprisoned, deprived, and lied to about yourself and about your parents on a consistent basis.”

Harry’s face was growing hotter by the second.

“What I want to know, however, pertains to our typical school-year exchanges.” Snape paused. “Taking advantage of any and all opportunities to see you writhe is admittedly one of my favorite teaching-related activities.”

“No kidding,” Harry managed to mutter through his rising trepidation.

“Why, in five years of comments and jabs at your spoiled, pampered existence, did you never once correct me?”

Harry gaped. That had not been the question he’d been expecting. “You…you _are_ kidding this time, right?”

“I do not ‘kid.’” Snape actually looked affronted.

“Well, for one, you never would have believed me! And don’t bother denying it. You didn’t even believe me after you saw my room. It took Uncle Vernon—” Harry stopped, not really wanting to go there. “And anyway, I hardly wanted my crummy childhood to be Slytherin common room gossip.” Harry could actually feel the blood leaving his face then, as his mind latched onto that thought. “Um…is it?”

“Is what?”

“As soon as school starts, is everything you learned about me going to become Slytherin common room gossip?” Harry hated how vulnerable he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never even told his closest friends the whole truth. The idea of the whole school knowing…well, darn right he was feeling kind of vulnerable. The feeling only worsened when Snape didn’t answer right away. Oh, no…he _was_ going to spread it around school, Harry just knew it. Vulnerability be hanged; Harry felt downright ill. “I’ll deny it, you know! Not even my Gryffindor friends know about it—well, not about the worst bits, anyway. As soon as they know it was you who started the rumor, no one will believe it. They all know how much you hate me. They’ll just figure you’re doing it out of spite!”

“What do you think it means to be a Slytherin, Potter?”

“Wha— huh?” Harry was starting to feel dizzy from all the conversational trails Snape was leading him down.

“Surely you have some preconceived notions of the basic characteristics one must possess in order to be sorted into the most infamous of houses.”

“Well, everyone knows there wasn’t a witch or wizard went bad wasn’t in—”

“Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor. Try again.”

“Um…the Sorting Hat said cunning, right? And…it did say I had a thirst to prove myself…”

“Correct. Slytherins are sorted as such because they have cunning and ambition. Just as Gryffindors are hailed for courage, Ravenclaws for intelligence, and Hufflepuffs for loyalty, Slytherins are sorted for their positive attributes, not because their eleven-year old minds have hatched evil, diabolical plans to take over the world as the next generation of Dark Lords.”

“…okay…”

“Due to their personal ambitions and capabilities for cunning, some Slytherins by default do tend more in general toward the self-serving attitudes you seem only too eager to see at the expense of other observations.”

“Sir? No offense and all…I mean, this is interesting…but what does this have to do with whether you’re going to tell—”

“You claim to have been almost sorted into Slytherin, Potter. As unlikely as I have always thought the idea to be, the Sorting Hat does not lie. Far fetched or no, it appears that you may, after all, possess some modicum of cunning in that thick head of yours. It is time you learned how to use it.”

“What, and you’ve decided you’re going to teach me?” Harry didn’t know whether to scowl or laugh.

Snape merely inclined his head. “Your first exercise is to dissect the motivations I may have in revealing your history of familial neglect to your schoolmates.”

Harry stared at him. “You’re actually using my horrible childhood as an exercise in being Slytherin?”

“Yes. Now, go on.”

“Um…” Harry couldn’t believe he was actually about to play along with this. “Alright, well, you hate me.”

“That is an emotion, not a motivation. You will limit your answers to what spreading rumors about your abusive childhood would gain me.”

“You like to see me squirm, you love to see me angry, embarrassed, or humiliated, and you probably reach a state of euphoria at the prospect of seeing me cry.”

Snape, of course, didn’t deny any of that. “Now, Potter, consider the circumstances. Knowing, as I now do, that I am in possession of more information about your home life than the whole of Gryffindor Tower, would I, in fact, gain all that you have listed by sharing that information?”

Harry didn’t want to answer. What if Shape was just scoping out the situation to make sure he would, in fact, be inflicting the most amount of damage? But he answered anyway, maybe because this conversation was just so strange. “Yes. Of course you would.”

“Perhaps. At first, yes. However, I would speculate that once your throes of angst were at an end, quite the opposite would occur. As you stated, those with no reason to value my Death Eater word higher than that of the noble savior of the wizarding world would never truly believe it. Those with reason to see the truth—those closest to you, no doubt, along with certain members of the Hogwarts staff—would more likely gravitate to either pity or coddling.

“Given that presupposition, and your statement of my motivations, would I truly choose to subject myself to witnessing a litany of coddling professors, hero-worshiping prats, and reporters with nothing better to do with their time than to hail the great Harry Potter, overcomer of yet more adversity?”

It took Harry a moment to even be able to say, “Wow. Um, wow…you put all that thought into every petty thing you do?”

Snape crossed his arms, apparently waiting for Harry to say something of actual substance.

“Okay, so…you’re _not_ going to tell?”

Snape stood abruptly, throwing his hands in the air. “Bloody Gryffindor! Did you hear a word of what I just said, Potter?”

“Of course I did!” Harry defended automatically. “But you know, if you really want to put so much thought into figuring out how to destroy my life, you’re forgetting something about me. I hate that stuff, all that attention, probably more than you hate to see me getting it. So it would be a torture for me more than it would for you! You’d have won, anyway. So your little ‘exercise in cunning,’ it’s not even based on who I really am! It’s based on who you think I am, which just means your own sneakiness could use some more work!”

“Perhaps,” Snape murmured, watching Harry shrewdly.

“Perhaps? What does that mean? I didn’t want a lesson in Slytherin-speak, professor! I just want to know if you’re going to tell.”

Snape snorted. “Fine thing, Potter, for it would take more than this one lesson for you to comprehend the fine art of cunning. One of which is to not hand your enemies weapons. Weaknesses are weapons, Potter, and you just gave me one more of yours.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry countered fiercely. “You only think I did because you’ve been assuming things about me for the past five years! If you paid any real attention to me or talked to anyone who even kind of knows me, you’d already know that I hate all that horrible attention! I didn’t hand you a weapon. Your own assumptions just prevented you from figuring it out before!”

“Damn you, Potter!” Snape yelled suddenly, his eyes flashing in anger. “You were supposed to be arrogant!”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You were supposed to be a spoiled, arrogant, dim-witted, attention-seeking brat! You were supposed to make it effortless for me to hate you! Five years, Potter! Five years! I’ve never had any trouble seeing your father in you! Why choose now to destroy my comfortable illusions?” Snape was seething, his fists clenched at his sides, and Harry was so taken aback that he couldn’t think of a reply. Was Snape saying he’d been wrong about Harry? The words kind of sounded like it, but the pure, absolutely angry way they were said sure didn’t.

After a moment, he decided that maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all. The situation seemed a bit precarious.

Snape’s eyes were shooting daggers at Harry until he finally spun on his heel toward the door. He turned back around almost immediately with a muttered curse, and to Harry’s confusion, stalked over to Harry’s school trunk and lifted the lid. He carefully drew out the long shard of mirror glass from on top of Harry’s belongings and resumed his march toward the door.

Harry couldn’t keep his silence, then. “Wait! What are you doing with that?”

Snape didn’t turn around, nor did he stop. “Disposing of it! At least there is some sense still left in this world, Potter, as you foolishly did not stop to think about the expedience of such an action right away.”

Harry ran to catch up with Snape, following close on his heels as the man reached the stairs and descended them at a rapid pace. “It’s mine! I don’t want to throw it out. Give it back!”

“So that you may puncture a vital organ next time? I think not.”

“But it’s mine!” Harry repeated again, starting to feel real panic. Snape couldn’t destroy it, he just couldn’t!

Snape didn’t stop until they had reached the kitchen, and Harry was by then terrified that he would never see the shard again. Not stopping to think of the folly of it, as soon as Snape stopped, Harry rushed at him, grabbing for the shard. He’d caught Snape off guard, he could tell, the professor’s shock apparent on his face. Snape immediately lifted the piece of glass above Harry’s reach and shoved him away with one firm, surprisingly strong arm.

Harry struggled, desperate to claim the shard.

“Potter! What in Merlin’s— Get a hold of yourself, boy!” And when that didn’t work, “POTTER, STOP THIS INSTANT!”

“Don’t throw it away! It’s mine!” was all Harry could manage as made one final effort to jump for it.

“Why I should not toss a broken, hazardous piece of worthless junk, I have no idea!” Snape shoved him toward the kitchen table, irritation in every syllable. “Stop attempting to cut your other hand on it, however, and I will desist in disposing of it until after you have explained yourself!”

At that promise, Harry warily backed away from Snape, eyes trained on the arm holding the largest piece of Sirius’ mirror. His body was tight, ready to pounce again at the slightest indication that Snape was lying about not tossing it out yet.

“Sit,” Snape commanded. His tone brooked no argument.

Harry sat at the nearest end of the table, eyes still focused on the mirror shard as he watched Snape’s hand lay it down on the other end of the table, beyond Harry’s reach.

Snape sat stiffly next to Harry. “Explain yourself,” he commanded.

“It’s mine,” Harry repeated. “It’s mine, and you’ve no right to destroy it without asking me.”

“I have every right, Potter, as the professor who nearly had a heart attack this morning when Dobby the house-elf came to me with a story of your dead body strewn in a bloody heap on your own bed. What would possess you to want to keep a worthless, broken—”

“Sirius gave it to me,” Harry rushed to explain, not bothering to evade the issue any longer. It was what it was, right? Either Snape would let him have it back, or he wouldn’t. It may as well be based on the truth.

Harry didn’t bother to look at Snape, but the man didn’t immediately shut him down, so he explained, “Sirius gave me a mirror to communicate with him. He kept the other one, and I was supposed to call him with it if I ever needed him. I forgot about his present, see? I forgot about it before the Department of Mysteries, and after he…after the veil, I broke it—the mirror, I mean. I know…I know you hated him, but he was my godfather, and I barely even got to know him, and it’s one of the few things I have that he—that Sirius ever gave me, and…you can’t throw it out. You can’t…” His voice cracked, and he fought back a humiliating rush of indefinable emotions. He swallowed, hard, and hoped that Snape would answer soon, because he wasn’t so sure that he would be able to speak for a few minutes. At least, not without even more embarrassing memories between himself and the professor.

Snape was silent also, and the charged silence was nearly enough to make Harry run for the door…with a brief stop to grab for Sirius’ mirror, of course.

Snape finally stood and walked over to the sharp, jagged piece of broken mirror. He stood there for a moment, and Harry finally tore his eyes away from the object to meet his gaze. Snape was staring at him, something indefinable in his eyes, and he reached for his wand, bringing it around to point at the mirror. Harry watched with rising dread. Snape was going to destroy it. He was going to destroy it, and Harry would never again see the precious gift that Sirius had given him.

“Please,” Harry managed to whisper, not even caring how pathetic he probably sounded. “Don’t…”

But as Harry watched, Snape pointed his wand at the piece of mirror, speaking an incantation so quietly that Harry almost mistook it for a silent spell. An orange smoke lifted from the table, and Harry lowered his head. All that humiliation in front of Snape, and for nothing. Now he’d lost both the mirror and his pride. In a moment, he’d be angry. Right now, he had to get a hold of himself. He wouldn’t let himself break down after all he’d already done and said.

Before he could think beyond that, a hand set the familiar shard of mirror on the table in front of Harry. Harry reached out to touch it, hardly daring to believe that Snape hadn’t destroyed it. He carefully ran one finger down the edge of the mirror, where it had formerly been sharp and cutting. Snape’s spell had smoothed the broken edges without destroying its shape.

Harry felt closer to tears than he had when he’d thought it destroyed. He swallowed against the childish urge to cry, instead grasping the mirror with his good hand and bringing it close to hug against his chest.

He heard Snape move toward the door, and he thought for a moment before he allowed himself to do something he’d sworn only days before that he would never do.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, head still bowed. He heard Snape pause. “For this, and…for, um, for letting me come with you. From the Dursleys. Thank you for not leaving me there.”

He didn’t hear anything for a long moment, but he didn’t bother to look up to check if Snape was still there or to see how he had taken his thanks.

After a moment, Snape’s movements resumed as he opened the kitchen door in his retreat. Before the door swung closed to leave Harry alone with his precious mirror, he heard, in the voice of his most hated Hogwarts professor, one sentence he’d thought he’d be more unlikely to hear than his own expressing his thanks:

“You are welcome, Mr. Potter.”


	19. Squinting at Snape

Harry squinted his eyes.

Hmm…no difference.

Maybe if he turned his head to the side, just so?

Nope, still no difference.

Snape was still Snape.

The man had been baffling Harry all day, ever since his unexpected outburst about hating Harry…or was it about _not_ hating him? Harry really wasn’t sure what that had all been about.

He might have been able to forget about it if Snape hadn’t immediately afterward passed up on the perfect opportunity to injure Harry. Since when would the man not only give him back a sentimental possession, but also smooth out the edges to make it safe for him? It was a small thing, certainly, but something Harry never would have thought Snape capable of doing.

And then, most shocking of all, he had actually accepted Harry’s thanks! Without mocking jeers or thunderous rage, even.

Harry squinted only one eye at Snape this time. It made the man sitting across from him at the kitchen table look a little blurry, but other than that…he still looked like Snape.

“May I assist you with something, Mr. Potter?” came a familiar voice from a familiar body, and in a familiar impatient tone. Yep, definitely still Snape.

Harry looked back down at his dinner plate, poking his fork into a bit of steamed carrot. “Er…no, sir. I’m good.”

Snape turned back to his own plate of food, spooning the last bit into his mouth before pushing the plate aside. It immediately disappeared from the table. Harry couldn’t help but notice that his professor even chewed methodically. It was like everything about this man was systematically meticulous—his potions, his classroom, even his eating habits. Not that his outburst earlier had been methodical, or his action with the mirror predictable…

And then there was the prophecy. Harry had been thinking about that a lot all day, too. Could it really mean what Dumbledore thought it meant? Was Snape destined to have so large a role in the war as to decide its outcome? Was it really possible that he might be the key to helping Harry figure out how to defeat Voldemort? Or…was it possible that Harry or Dumbledore would be the deceived of the prophecy and Voldemort the victor?

Only Snape probably knew the answer to that last question. Now that Dumbledore had presumably shared the prophecy with him, he must have the best idea out of anyone of its meaning. Not that Harry would ever ask him, of course. The man was a spy. If he was misleading Dumbledore, he’d hardly tell the truth about it now.

“If you have something to say, Potter, swallow your food and say it!” Snape didn’t really look angry, but his sneer spoke volumes of his irritation at Harry’s staring.

Harry looked down again. “Nothing to say, sir; I’m fine.”

“Do not toy with me. You obviously have something on your mind, and I am not in a mood to mollycoddle it out of you. Have your say, then kindly desist in scrutinizing me.”

Harry chewed the last bit of the food in his mouth, thinking quickly. He couldn’t tell Snape what he had really been thinking. He grasped quickly for something to say. “Unusual creatures,” he blurted out. “I was wondering why we never saw any in that forest.”

“Pardon?” Snape knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. “What gibberish are you going on about?”

“In the forest with Remus and Moody, right after we left the Dursleys,” Harry explained, “Dumbledore sent you that wand, and the Portkey, and a note. And the note said to watch out for unusual creatures. I didn’t ask before, but I really wondered…what creatures exactly was he talking about? And why didn’t we see any?”

Harry swore then that Snape actually twitched his lips in amusement before responding, “We did not see any unusual creatures, Potter, because there were no creatures to see. It was a code. As is the case with all Order messages, the headmaster could not guarantee that the message which he sent me would not be intercepted. He could not simply spell out the password to the Portkey. If he had, and if it was, in fact, seized by the wrong party, Lupin and Moody would be dead by now.”

“Oh.” That made sense. It was pretty neat, actually, to think of codes and rendezvous and such. Still…how did he get a Portkey password out of such a cryptic message?

As if reading his mind, Snape summoned a quill and a piece of parchment from the other side of the room and scribbled something on it before passing it to Harry.

_Every uNusual crEature deeMed riskY_ , it read.

“‘Enemy’ was the password,” Snape explained. “First letter of the first word, second letter of the second word, and so on.”

Harry’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Oh. That’s pretty cool. Do you always use this code when passing messages? Or do you have different codes for different things? Or something else? Or some way to—”

Snape held up his hand. “One question at a time will suffice.” But his eyes weren’t narrowed, and his mouth wasn’t set in a straight thin line. Harry was starting to think that maybe Snape didn’t really hate answering these types of questions, even if they were from Harry. “We do, in fact, have various codes for various uses. The headmaster also uses certain devices to communicate with certain people, thereby ensuring that not one single person knows every one of those methods. Taking into account the Dark Lord’s effective means of gaining information, to entrust even the most trustworthy of Order members with every last piece of information would be foolhardy.”

“So what are some of the other codes, then?” Harry asked eagerly, pushing away his mostly finished plate of food. Finally something more interesting to learn than how to count to one hundred with his eyes closed!

“I could not tell you that, even if I were so inclined,” Snape said shortly.

Harry slouched back into his chair. Well. _That_ didn’t last long. “You don’t even have some measly, harmless code or password you can tell me? It’s not like I’m going to go around telling You Know Who about it or anything,” he pointed out.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape began in his lecturing professor voice, which basically guaranteed Harry wouldn’t like what he said, “the Order does not devise methods of communication purely for your amusement. If the need arises, you will be provided with a thrilling code of your own, no doubt involving numerous nonsensical phrases concerning unusual creatures. Until then, you will desist in questioning me regarding matters which are none of your business. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered. He still thought he ought to have a secret code or password or something. If nothing else, it would lend a little bit of fun to his otherwise tedious summer.

After a day of mostly silence between the two of them, however, Snape now seemed inclined to discuss a few other things…things not quite so interesting to Harry as secret codes. “I informed you this morning that I would test you on your Occlumency efforts over breakfast. As certain…distractions prevented it, we shall do so now.”

“Occlumency. Oh, joy,” griped Harry, but he sat up straight at Snape’s warning look.

“Did you practice the three exercises the headmaster assigned to you?”

“Yes,” Harry answered without meeting his eyes.

“The truth,” Snape snapped.

“Okay, fine. I tried the first two and totally failed. But I did read about the third!”

“Explain your attempt at the first exercise,” Snape ordered.

“The book said to breathe in and out, counting as I did. I…um, tried, I really did. A couple of times, even. But I just kept thinking about other things. I don’t get it—how in the world can somebody just shut off their mind to everything around them? It’s impossible!”

“It is not impossible; it is necessary,” Snape retorted. “And the second exercise?”

“I tried to imagine myself somewhere else. But then I just kept thinking about other things again. It was other things about that place, though, not about the here and now.”

“What place did you use as your anchor for the exercise?”

“Just…a place,” Harry answered feebly. How did Snape always know exactly the wrong questions to ask?

“I cannot determine the reason for your lack of progress without understanding how you are failing to clear your mind, Potter. You will be frank with me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. But, um…I thought you weren’t teaching me Occlumency. The headmaster is supposed to be doing that this time.”

“The headmaster and I have reached an understanding. He will be overseeing your practical lessons, yes, but as I am the unfortunate soul saddled with your company at the moment, I will be ensuring that you stay on task in completing your reading and homework exercises. Now answer the question.”

Harry was starting to think that coming up with ways to avoid answering Snape’s questions were pretty pointless. The determined man always managed to come back around to getting what he wanted to know, and Harry was out of distractions involving “unusual creatures.” So he sighed and resigned himself to…well, he didn’t know to what, exactly. He would usually predict ridicule, but Snape was acting rather oddly today, what with all his shifting back and forth between civility and snappishness.

And now he wondered if the reason for Snape’s unpredictable behavior today was maybe that Snape himself was undecided as to how to act. He had been rather upset earlier about Harry proving to be different than Snape had expected…or wanted…him to be.

“Answer the question, Potter! I do not have all day!”

Case in point.

Harry braced himself. “I imagined I was in my cupboard,” he admitted so quietly that anyone with less sharp hearing than Snape’s would have had to strain to hear.

Snape definitely hadn’t expected that answer from Harry, if his furrowed brow and lack of a quick response were any indication. He cleared his throat. “Potter…I do believe the book said to focus on a _pleasant_ thought or memory, did it not?”

“Er…yeah, it did…”

“And did you _enjoy_ being locked and starved in said cupboard?”

“Of course not!” Harry answered indignantly.

“Then I fail to see why you chose that…prison, of all places, as a memory with which to focus on clearing your mind.” Snape was giving him a look which clearly said what he thought of Harry’s level of sanity.

“It wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t—” Harry stopped, took a deep breath, then started again, “It was a horrible place, yes, when I was being punished. But it wasn’t always…you know, a prison. It was also my room. Sometimes it was the only place I could go to get away from _them_. And cramped and dark as it was, it was mine.”

“It was yours,” echoed Snape, drawing out the words. He still looked at Harry like he thought he was nutters. “Perhaps we should revisit the concept of happy thoughts, Potter. You were to focus on something pleasant, not on a reminder of being treated fractionally better than a house-elf.”

Harry flushed and mumbled, “It wasn’t all bad…”

“The cupboard? Or living with your relatives?” Snape asked, and Harry looked at him in surprise. It almost sounded like the man was personally interested in the answer. Snape apparently realized that at the same moment, because his expression closed off completely. He didn’t take back the question though, and Harry had to think a moment before replying. He’d hated life at the Dursleys, no question about that…but this conversation was straying into dangerously personal territory. Harry wasn’t about to give his professor more ammunition for future taunts than he already had.

He settled for a halfhearted shrug and a watered down truth. “Both, I guess. It’s not like I was afraid for my life, you know. They just didn’t like me all that much.”

Snape examined him for a moment with his expressionless eyes before getting back to the point. “Elaborate on your attempts at the exercise.”

Harry inwardly breathed a sigh of relief at the reprieve from delving further into his childhood. “Okay…yeah, it didn’t really work so well.”

“Explain.”

Harry gave him a blank stare. “Explain what? It didn’t work, that’s all. I got distracted, just like with the counting.”

Snape crossed his arms over his chest in obvious exasperation. “Getting the information I actually need from you is like trying to obtain venom from a live Acromantula, Potter—nigh unto impossible!”

Harry crossed his own arms. “Well, if you’d stop trying to pry into my personal life—”

“This is not personal, Potter; this is war. Even if it did not benefit you to retain control over your own mind, it most certainly benefits our fight against the Dark Lord. Besides, what do you think that you can possibly have to hide? I have already discovered more useless information about your ‘personal life’ than I have ever desired to know. Discussing your thoughts within the no doubt minuscule amount of time you actually dedicated to the exercise cannot possibly be more damaging to your pride than not improving upon your Occlumency would be to your _life_.”

Harry absorbed Snape’s words, eyes trained on the tabletop in front of him. Snape was right, in a way. The professor _did_ already know most everything Harry had never wanted him to know. And fighting Voldemort…that was more important than Harry’s stupid pride any day of the week, wasn’t it? But still…thinking about it, he suddenly realized what it was that was holding him back.

“You don’t know how I _feel_ about it,” Harry murmured.

“Come again?”

“So…you know things, okay?” Harry raised his eyes to the dark material covering Snape’s folded arms. “You know about lots of things neither one of us wanted out in the open. But…when it’s all said and done, it’s okay. More okay than I thought it would be, anyway. I’ll live; I’ll get over it.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I’ll get over it because…you still don’t know the important stuff. What I think of it all, how I feel about it, how it’s made me brave about some things and afraid of others. I…can’t let you know that. Even if it _will_ benefit the war, I…I just can’t.”

The silence in the room was so thick after his admission that he almost wished he could grasp for the words and take them all back. Though…he guessed he had said what needed to be said, even if Snape did hold him in complete contempt for it.

“Occlumency,” Snape broke the silence guardedly, as if he couldn’t believe he was about to be forthright with Harry in return, “is a complex and delicate study. It requires a certain level of trust between teacher and student, a level of trust which I insisted to the headmaster innumerable times last year that you and I do not possess. Could never possess, as a matter of fact.”

Harry almost nodded his agreement but wasn’t sure that would be the appropriate response. He remained still and listened, watching Snape’s arms as they unfolded to rest on the table.

“I do not care to trust you, Potter. And do not fool yourself into thinking that I care one bit whether or not you trust me. However,” Snape paused, “it appears that the headmaster’s assertion that a semblance of trust is not necessary in order to follow up on mere homework assignments was inaccurate.”

When Snape didn’t speak for a full minute, Harry figured he’d said all he wanted to say. “So…we’re, um—”

“At an impasse, Potter. The correct phrase in this situation is, ‘I believe we are at an impasse.’”

“Oh. Right. That’s a…good way of putting it.” Harry couldn’t think of a single other thing to say.

“Return to your studies,” Snape ordered crisply before standing from the table.

Harry stood as well and hesitantly asked, “So…that’s it, then? You’re not overseeing my homework anymore?”

“I will ensure that you do not spend your holiday lazing about. If the headmaster wants you to be tested on the materials, he can very well do it himself,” Snape sneered slightly as he shoved in his chair and walked toward the door.

Harry silently made his way to the drawing room as Snape climbed the stairs, presumably to work in his lab. The books Hermione and Ron had brought him for the upcoming school year were strewn across the table and floor where he had spread them out after breakfast that morning in his attempts to avoid all things Occlumency and Potions. Actually cracking his Hogwarts books had seemed like a decent way to avoid Snape until dinner and also to avoid a tongue lashing _at_ dinner.

Harry collapsed on the sofa. He wasn’t at all disappointed by this latest development, he decided…but he would have thought he’d be a bit more elated. After all, he didn’t have to discuss his exercises with Snape anymore! They really would both be better off if they could avoid living on the same continent; they both knew that. Plus, as Snape had said…how could it even work if they didn’t trust one another? That really made sense, actually. If Harry wasn’t willing to share a part of his mind, then how could anybody help him figure out how to control it?

It was only…well, who knew when Dumbledore would have time to start their Occlumency lessons? He was so busy with the Order and running Hogwarts and who knew what else. How was Harry going to learn Occlumency if he had no constant tutor? And as much as he’d been fighting it, the events of last year had at least taught him that, like it or not, learning Occlumency wasn’t necessarily a horrible idea.

But come to think of it, maybe it really wasn’t Occlumency itself that Harry disliked. It was the horrid methods of learning it that he hated. He really didn’t know which was worse anymore: withstanding vicious attacks on his mind or being forced to read that boring old book.

If he could just figure it out and have the ‘learning it’ bit behind him, his life would be a whole lot easier.

Especially, as he was to reflect several hours later, not knowing how to properly clear his mind made slowly drifting into sleep on the drawing room couch much more risky an endeavor. And whether it was his mind not being clear that caused it to reach into Voldemort’s mind once again, or whether it was a fluke brought on by the dark wizard’s intensely joyous state, Harry did not know…

* * *

His followers stood before him in a crowd of identical black hooded robes and masks, and he allowed himself a moment to revel in the symbolic uniformity. It represented so much of his own vision. One day, the wizarding world—no, the entire world—would be so wholly consistent, so unpolluted by the foul blood of the dissimilar, the weak…the Muggle.

He smiled, admiring in his followers the living, breathing testament to the purity of his ambitions.

His smile only grew as his newest prisoner was led through the sea of dark robes to stand in his presence. The crude Muggle clothing the woman wore contrasted with the surrounding Death Eater garbs. It served to emphasize the pollution she and her kind were responsible for condoning.

It was no matter. The Squib would die today, though not before he gathered the information necessary to lead him one step closer to his prize…and one step closer to the power he craved.

No, he didn’t merely crave that power. He _deserved_ it.

“Where is Harry Potter?” he questioned, drawing his wand on the shaking woman. He loved knowing that it was he who caused her to shake in fear.

She tightened her lips in a silent refusal to answer.

“ _Crucio!_ ” His smiled widened as the collapsed figure writhed in pain. He let up an instant later, unwilling to destroy this frail excuse for an offspring of wizards before his questions had been answered.

“Where have they taken the boy?” he repeated smoothly. “You know that Dumbledore cannot hide him from me forever. I will find him, with or without your help. Tell me what I need to know, and I may allow you to live.”

The prisoner’s violent shaking did not prevent a look of defiance from crossing her face. She opened her white, trembling lips to foolishly declare, “You will never win! Albus Dumbledore will—”

“Albus Dumbledore is a fool,” he interrupted smoothly, smile disappearing from his face. The Squib was beginning to spoil his excellent mood. “I will ask once more: tell me what you know of the location of Harry Potter. Refuse, and you will die this day a more torturous death than one ridiculous boy is worth.”

She tightened her lips into a thin line, eyes simultaneously showing defiance and terror.

“So be it,” he hissed, joy completely spoiled at the less than worthwhile find. The Death Eater who captured her had assured him that her resistance would be as frail as her aged, thin frame. The Death Eater would be punished.

“Kill her,” he ordered his followers. “Slowly. If she decides to remember any information of value, stop immediately and bring her to me.”

She would die. But now…now he must exercise the next step in his plan to locate the elusive and protected boy.

He turned away, leaving his followers to carry out the fate of one Arabella Figg.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes abruptly, for one endless moment certain that he had been placed under the Cruciatus Curse. The pain in his scar throbbed in time with his pounding heart.

The moment of confusion ended even while the pain did not, and all the moments thereafter passed too quickly. Harry began to panic before he even rose to his feet. Every second he wasted was another second closer to Mrs. Figg’s death! He bolted through the door to the hallway and up the stairs. Not stopping to think of the distinct possibility that Snape would curse him into oblivion, he charged through the door of the potions laboratory without knocking.

Snape was in the corner, his back to the door. He spun around, wand in hand, at the sudden intrusion. Seeing Harry, his face hardened, eyes flashing.

Before Snape could start in on him, Harry leaned his arms on the nearest table to catch his breath and gasped, “Mrs. Figg! He’s got Mrs. Figg! They’re torturing her, and she’s going to die!” _Breathe. Look Snape in the eyes_. “They’re killing her!”

The anger faded from Snape’s face as quickly as it had appeared. He reached Harry’s side and, grabbing him by both shoulders, shoved his shaking body into a nearby chair. The professor’s entire frame was tense with urgency as he searched Harry’s eyes. “You had a vision from the Dark Lord?”

Harry could only nod, panic setting in.

“ _Arabella_ Figg?” Snape asked quickly.

Harry gave another quick, jerky nod.

“Tell me what you saw. Exactly, beginning to end. Be quick, and be thorough.”

Harry tried in vain to swallow a fresh burst of panic. “He—he was with his Death Eaters.” Harry gasped for breath.

“Breathe, Potter. In. out.”

He tried, but talking was more important. “He was happy because he had a prisoner! He was happy,” Harry gasped for air, “because he thought he could get her to tell where I was, but she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, either one, and he told them to kill her. Slowly, though. He said slowly…so she might still be alive!” He shoved against Snape’s hands where they kept a tight hold on Harry’s shoulders. “You have to tell the Order! She might still be alive! You have to go now and tell them to find her!”

Snape didn’t move, despite Harry’s attempts to push him away. “Where are they? Describe the surroundings. Outdoors or inside? Forest, graveyard, shack, mansion? As many details as you can remember.”

“Inside, I think. Um, some kind of huge room, maybe?”

“Was there anything in the room? Anything at all that might identify it?”

“It was dark, I think it was a stone floor. Maybe? I didn’t see anything but the people! I told you everything. Please just tell the Order!” Harry couldn’t keep the panic from taking over much longer.

Snape did not hesitate now; he swept out the door so quickly that if Harry had blinked, he’d have missed it. Snape gone along with his message, Harry brought his knees up to his chest, slowly rocking back and forth in an attempt to distract himself from his racing thoughts and his throbbing scar.

But he knew there would be no distraction for this.

He knew Mrs. Figg. Not well, really. But he still knew her. She had watched over him before he knew who she was. She had even testified for him at his hearing last summer.

And now…now she was going to be killed by Voldemort in his quest to locate Harry. She was going to die _because of Harry_. He was about to be responsible for yet another death.

He clambered off the chair to reach a wastebasket. He felt about to retch, but he didn’t. He sat there, on the floor near the wastebasket, just in case.

He wasn’t crying, and he didn’t know whether to feel guilty for not crying. Would Mrs. Figg hate him if she knew that he wasn’t crying after seeing her being sent to her death? He brought up his knees again, but he didn’t rock this time; the shaking of his body was all the movement he could handle.

Where was Snape? He had to have contacted the Order by now. Were they looking for her? Had he left to look with them?

The moments stretched by, and Harry didn’t know if it had been mere minutes or long hours before Snape reentered the lab, his black shoes stopping directly in front of Harry. Harry couldn’t look up; he was afraid of what news Snape had brought. His body shook violently.

After a moment, Snape knelt to just above Harry’s eye level, and Harry didn’t have any more excuses. He met the professor’s eyes, terrified of what he might see.

“I contacted the Order,” Snape said evenly. “They were aware of Arabella Figg’s disappearance and had been searching for her. Until I made contact, they had no reason to believe that she had been taken prisoner by the Dark Lord. They have increased their efforts to find her. However,” he paused before saying evenly, “their efforts will most likely be in vain if she has, indeed, been handed over to his followers. I expect she will be dead before the day is out.”

Harry lowered his head to his knees at hearing it put so bluntly. Still, even through the turmoil he felt inside, he appreciated Snape’s bluntness. Dealing with the truth was hard enough without having to sift through a sugarcoated version of the truth.

He didn’t lift his head when Snape rose to his feet and walked to the other side of the laboratory. He heard shuffling and the sound of bottles clinking against each other, and then Snape was back beside him.

“Drink this.” The closeness of Snape’s voice told Harry that he was kneeling again.

Harry raised his head a fraction to see a small bottle of potion being held out to him, and he took it and poured it into his mouth without question. This was probably the first time he’d ever taken a potion from Snape without suspiciously questioning him, he thought absently.

He leaned his head back, his shaking almost immediately lessening as a calming feeling spread throughout his body. It didn’t take away all of the panic or the pain of his scar, but it did make it easier to breathe.

“Better?” Snape asked, though Harry knew by his clipped tone that the question was clinical rather than caring.

Harry nodded, unfocused eyes staring ahead of him. “He was looking for me.”

Snape hesitated before saying quietly, “I know.”

Harry rolled his head to the side, taking in Snape’s searching look, though he couldn't think what Snape might be searching for. “How…” Harry gulped, needing to ask the question, but not wanting to know the answer, “how many others has he killed, trying to find me?”

“Less than he would have killed were he not distracted by this latest plan.”

Harry closed his eyes, knowing what that meant. Mrs. Figg wasn’t the first person Voldemort had tortured and killed for information on Harry’s whereabouts this summer. He licked his lips, then croaked, “Who else?”

“It is not necessary for you to know—”

“Who else?” he demanded, desperate eyes boring into Snape’s. He didn’t even care if Snape saw how shaken he was. He just needed to know who else had been needlessly killed in the pursuit of keeping Harry safe.

“Two Muggles from your neighborhood, shortly after we left,” Snape said, giving in to Harry’s plea. “The Dark Lord appears to have now abandoned that route, as none of the residents of Privet Drive seem to know anything about you beyond your uncle’s claims that you are a delinquent in attendance at a school for criminal boys.”

“And the Dursleys?” Harry whispered, not sure why he cared, just that he didn’t want them dead. Not dead because of him, anyway.

“We believe he has decided them of more use alive. Nonetheless, they are…under certain protections.” Snape sneered at that, as though dubious about the wasting of wizarding protections on them. From Snape’s odd behavior today, Harry wondered if it was because he had seen them being so horrible to Harry…but then he remembered the image of Uncle Vernon threatening Snape with a lawsuit and figured his professor wouldn’t need to have any other reason to not like the Dursleys. Still, even in the midst of this nightmare, it was somehow nice to know that even Snape couldn’t stand Harry’s horrible relatives.

Snape held out another bottle of potion in the silence, but as Harry reached for it, Snape held it back, just out of his grasp. At Harry’s questioning look, he explained, “Dreamless sleep potion. Go to bed. Drink this just before you sleep.”

Harry stared. “I can’t go to bed! Mrs. Figg—”

“The Order is looking for her. You can do nothing from here to change her fate. Go to bed,” he repeated, in a tone Harry nearly mistook for gentleness.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. He was too tired now to start an argument with someone even more stubborn than himself. He rose to his feet, but he paused before accepting the potion that Snape still held out to him. “Um, sir?” he ventured before he could change his mind, though he carefully avoided the professor’s gaze. He took Snape’s silence as invitation to continue. “I…I kind of think that maybe…an impasse isn’t an option.”

Snape still didn’t answer, so Harry chanced a glance at him. Great—the unreadable expression was in place. Harry really hated that expression, even if he wished he could master it himself, sometimes.

“If I…take this potion tonight, what am I going to do tomorrow night? And the next night?” He swallowed, but he forced himself to go on, “I…I don’t know how many more of that kind of vision I can take…”

Snape studied him for a moment before asking, “Are you prepared to trust me, Potter?”

Harry tried to nod, but he couldn’t. Even Snape would see it for the lie that it was. “Um…maybe you could just…tell me how you cleared your mind when you were learning?”

“I was three years old,” Snape pointed out.

“Yeah. But couldn’t you tell me? I mean…how did your mum start to teach you?”

Snape crossed his arms. “If you think that I am about to tuck you in—”

“No,” Harry protested in a rush. _Definitely_ not. He crossed his arms too, only it wasn’t defensive; his shaking was getting worse again. “If you could just tell me what she told you, maybe I’d have some chance of actually learning something.”

“She sang to me,” Snape answered, surprising Harry by not only giving him an answer, but not immediately kicking him out of the lab.

“Oh.” Yeah, definitely not going to ask Snape to do _that_. Just the thought would have been enough to cause Harry to shudder if he hadn’t already been shaking.

“I was told to focus on her voice, and on the intervals of music. Then I was to focus on the words only, forgetting her voice or the melody. In this way, she taught me to focus my mind on one thing at a time, effectively blocking out extraneous details.”

Harry nodded. It made sense, but he still couldn’t figure out how to block out his own ‘extraneous details.’

His frustration must have shown on his face, for Snape withdrew the bottle of dreamless sleep and set it on the counter. “Prepare for bed, Potter. We will convene in your bedroom in fifteen minutes. And I will not,” Snape repeated, lifting his chin, “be tucking you in, singing you to sleep, or otherwise operating in any way parental toward your wretched teenage self.”

“O—okay,” was all Harry could manage before Snape steered him toward the door and out of the lab.

After a moment of staring at the closed laboratory door, he managed to calm his shaking long enough to make it to his room.

He tried not to think about Mrs. Figg’s terrified face, but it kept resurfacing in his mind’s eye. All he could do was hope that Snape wasn’t coming to his room to humiliate him or taunt him about his old, ragged Dudley hand-me-down nightclothes. He needed help to clear his mind from these and other images—to keep Voldemort away and, truth be told, to keep away the nightmares he knew he’d be having tonight. Nightmares filled with death and guilt.

He wasn’t ready to trust Snape, but he was still the only one who could help him. And so…right about now, Harry was ready to accept what little bit of help Snape was ready to offer.

Fifteen minutes later, as Harry listened to the sound of approaching footsteps with a mixture of hope and trepidation, he could only manage two measly, understated thoughts:

This was going to be interesting…

And there had better not be any singing.


	20. The Scent of Safety

Harry sat on his bed, then stood, then sat again, before Snape entered his room. One glance at the intimidating man in his doorway, however, and he shot back to his feet.

It was weird, this waiting for Snape to come to his room before going to sleep; it was too…parental, for lack of a better word. Harry felt downright awkward, with no clue how he was supposed to act. And, of course, the fact that his scar still hurt and he was still feeling shaky from his vision didn’t help matters.

Thankfully, Snape didn’t tarry by the door. He walked right in and gestured with an impatient wave for Harry to climb into bed. Harry quickly complied, pulling the covers completely up to his chin.

Snape sat stiffly on the foot of the bed, perched as if ready to leave at any moment.

“Clearing the mind is not something one can simply teach,” Snape began without preamble. “It must be consistently put into practice in order for your mind to develop any semblance of discipline. I will endeavor to aid you in the clearing of your mind. Do not mistake this for any concern on my part, Potter. I am agreeing to oversee your practice for tonight only, for the sole sake of the war effort.” His chin rose slightly.

_Well, yeah_ , Harry thought, making no reply. How many times did the man have to insist that he didn’t care about Harry? That usually went without saying, and Harry found it odd that Snape had found it necessary to say so more than once today.

Snape continued, “My observations this past week have led me to believe that your failure to clear your mind prior to sleep is not an isolated issue, and may, in fact, be part of a greater problem.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, not sure whether to be offended or worried. “Greater problem? What do you mean? What problem?”

Snape crossed his arms, relaxing his frame a minute amount, probably because he was approaching more familiar lecturing ground. “From the moment you and I arrived at this location, you have flitted from one activity to another, hardly able to focus on one single thing at a time.”

“That’s not true!” Harry denied automatically, propping himself up onto his elbows. “I can focus!”

“Oh, really?” Snape did look at him then, eyebrows raised. “Your first several days were spent in aimless teenage boredom, as if concentrating on one activity were beyond your comprehension. You have always been easily distracted in Potions class, and that has not changed in your few assignments this summer. Also, allow me to point out your horrendous attempt to study the headmaster’s assigned readings for more than one second at a time. You may examine the results of your failed Occlumency exercises for yourself.”

Harry sat up completely. “I can focus!” he repeated, trying to find some flaw in Snape’s list, but when he paused a little too long, he felt his face heat at Snape’s smug look. “I can focus,” he tried again. “I focused on all those potions assignments you gave me this week! You can’t blame me for being bored sometimes over all those hours you had me working—I finished, didn’t I? Anyway, everything you listed…it’s all boring.” Harry cringed as soon as he said that and it sounded like he was whining, so he tried a different tack. “I can focus on Quidditch! No matter how many hours I play that game, I never stop looking for the snitch, and I’m always able to avoid the bludgers. And maybe I don’t do so well in Potions because it’s not my favorite subject, but I’m really good at Defense!”

“I see,” Snape leaned back, arranging himself a bit more comfortably on the foot of Harry’s bed.

“You see _what?_ ”

Snape pierced Harry with his know-it-all gaze, “I see a teenager who has never learned the fine art of applying himself to occupations which may not entirely engage him.”

“I can—”

“I _see_ ,” Snape continued as if Harry hadn’t tried to interrupt him, “a boy who decides much too quickly that an activity is not worth his effort and therefore does not give it enough due attention to discover whether it perhaps may hold a single interesting or useful quality.”

“But I—”

“So you can focus on activities which you genuinely enjoy. Who cannot? That is hardly an accomplishment.” Snape leaned forward to get his point across to Harry. “You will never learn to clear your mind unless you learn to apply yourself utterly and completely to less than enjoyable undertakings.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue again, but he shut it before any words came out. Loathe as he was to admit it, Snape might actually have a point. Ugh. Harry resisted the urge to shudder at conceding the small victory to Snape.

He shuffled back on his bed so that he was sitting against the headboard. “Okay, fine. So what’s your solution to me clearing my mind, then?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Harry waited another moment, certain he either must have heard wrong or that Snape wasn’t finished. When the man didn’t say another word, Harry simply stared. “What—what do you mean, you’ve no idea? You always have ideas! _Unwanted_ ideas. And opinions and lectures and insults and—”

“I meant exactly what I said, Potter,” Snape interrupted, looking him over in the critical way that Harry knew meant he was currently poring over dozens of possible solutions in his head and testing them for merit. “I’ve no idea how to force you to concentrate when you refuse to do so. No mind can be forced to learn.” Snape paused, then continued, “We shall need to hypothesize until we come to a satisfactory solution.”

“Hypothesize?”

“As you will be pleasantly absent from the Sixth year Potions class, allow me explain a few principles which will be taught to those exemplary students.”

Harry lifted his chin in a show of defiance. “What makes you think I won’t be taking Potions next year?”

“I have recently received and reviewed every fifth year students’ Potions OWLs, Potter. Your grade of “E,” while shockingly higher than I had expected for you to receive, is unacceptable for my advanced Potions classes, and you will therefore not be admitted.”

Harry blinked but recovered from the declaration to defensively utter, “Yeah, well, what makes you think I would have wanted to take it next year, anyway?”

Snape smirked. “Are you counting on your celebrity to win you the post of Auror?”

“Of course not!” he shouted. He lowered his voice to ask suspiciously, “How…how did you know about my wanting to be an Auror?”

“While I do not owe you an explanation, I was, in fact, informed by the headmaster. He occasionally feels it necessary to keep me abreast of your progress via unsolicited information. It is no doubt one more way in which he has attempted to force the two of us to come to an understanding.”

“Um…oh.” The prophecy. Of course. Dumbledore might have given his word to not outright force them to work together, but there he was again, always behind the scenes trying in little ways to make each more tolerant of the other.

In light of that prophecy, Harry felt a nagging thought in the back of his mind telling him that maybe he _should_ try to be more tolerant of Snape. But nagging thoughts were often hard for Harry to follow, mainly because they were nagging against what he really wanted to do…which was to continue to blindly hate the professor.

“Case in point,” Snape’s interrupted his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Your inability to continue this conversation due to your meandering thoughts has proved my point.”

“I was thinking! That _requires_ focus, not the other way around! And there’s no law against it, you know. Everybody’s mind wanders, even yours!”

“You know my mind?” Snape crossed his arms, quirking his eyebrow in mocking amusement. “And not even having mastered Occlumency. Impressive.”

Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh. “So what’s this about Sixth year Potions?”

Thankfully, Snape went on without further jabs. “The NEWT-level Potions curriculum introduces the invention and experimentation of potions, hence my requirement that only the most advanced students be admitted. Students with the tendency to blow up their cauldrons while working from detailed instructions do tend to pose a danger when expected to brew with no instructions whatsoever.” Harry couldn’t help a nod at the thought of Neville working without even the aid of written directions.

“That aside,” Snape continued, “in order to experiment, one must hypothesize. In this way, we must conjecture how best to master the clearing of your mind, then test each method until proved or disproved.”

Harry felt like shaking his head at Snape’s drawn out logic. “So…all that lecturing was just to say that we should make a guess and see if it works.”

“That is the general idea. My explanation was quite more precise, of course.”

“Um, yeah. Of course.”

Snape narrowed his eyes, intelligent enough to know when he was being mocked.

Harry thought better than to let him dwell on it. “So…what’s your first guess?”

“Hypothesis, Potter. Guessing implies a lack of intelligent thought.”

Harry stared at his professor. How could one person be so infuriating, even when they were supposedly trying to help? “Fine. Hypothesis. What is it then?”

“Lie down. We will begin by engaging your senses.”

Harry shuffled down until he was flat on his back again. His fingers fiddled nervously with the sheets. “My senses?”

“Sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste. Surely even you have heard of them,” Snape said snidely. “Most people have a dominant sense. If we can isolate and use your dominant sense as the object of your focus, we may get somewhere.”

“Erm…okay.” It didn’t totally make sense, and he didn’t want to think about how taste might factor into this. Was Snape planning on pouring something gross onto his tongue or something? Ew. Harry didn’t want to dwell on all the ways that Snape could potentially make his life miserable in these few minutes alone.

Snape rose. “We shall begin with the sense of hearing.”

“Hearing? Um…not…um, you’re not really going to…er—”

“No, Potter,” Snape interrupted with a scowl, “I am _not_ going to sing.”

Harry relaxed and couldn’t help his rather loud sigh of relief. At a glare from Snape, he immediately schooled his features. It was hard, though, as the humor of the situation suddenly caught up with him. It was too funny—the idea of Snape singing coupled with the surrealism of the situation. Snape was basically helping Harry go to sleep. _Snape._

He imagined the outrageous look Ron would give him if he told him about this.

He didn’t mean to start laughing. He really didn’t. Especially since Snape was already talking, droning on about useless information such as how sounds are processed by the brain. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself, either. It just erupted inside of him until he couldn’t hold it in anymore and it burst out of him. Not light chuckles, either. Real laughter. The side-splitting peals of laughter that one tries to stop but can’t, no matter that the professor had stopped his speech to stare at him with an equal mixture of confusion and disdain.

Which just made Harry laugh harder, until he had to sit up from gasping for air.

“I fail to recognize what is so incredibly hilarious, Potter. You will desist with the tomfoolery immediately!”

Harry tried to talk through what was now a fit of rather embarrassing giggles at Snape’s raised voice, but all he could manage was, “I…can’t…stop!”

Before Harry knew it, Snape was hovered over him, his hand pressed to Harry’s forehead. Harry swatted it away, the unwanted contact helping him to get his giggles under control.

“You feel warm. Are you ill?” Snape asked, confusion and disdain giving way to something nearing, but not quite, concern.

That was unsettling enough to further help Harry to get his outburst under control. It was still hard to talk, though, with gasping for air between lingering giggles. “No…not sick. Just…tired, I guess. It…was all so funny…”

“Apparently,” Snape said dryly, watching him so critically that, once finally under control, Harry just about darted for the door. “I think perhaps that you are rather too tired to continue with this exercise at this time. No doubt this exhaustion has been brought on by your latest vision.”

“No! No, I’m fine, I swear! I…really need to learn to clear my mind, professor. I know that now. I can concentrate, I swear.” Despite his flaming face, he pulled together a pretty decent earnest expression. Really, he could think of nothing he’d like doing less than having Snape teach him to clear his mind. But…he had to do it, because memories of that vision were chasing away any lingering hilarity that moments ago had engulfed him.

Snape watched him for going on a full minute before finally giving in. “Very well. We shall dispense with the background knowledge and proceed to the exercise.”

He took his wand from the pocket of his robes and pointed it at Harry.

Harry shot up, hands in the air. “Whoa! Don’t point that wand at me before telling me what you’re doing!”

Snape lowered his arm a bit, and Harry moved his leg from where it still seemed to be in the wand’s path.

“You will think of a pleasant memory,” ordered Snape without apology. “Focus on that memory until you have blocked out everything save what you hear. Once you have isolated the sound or sounds, you will indicate as such to me, and I shall cast a simple spell to magnify that sound within the room. The tangible noise will hopefully aid you in your efforts to concentrate on that one memory, blocking all else from your conscious mind.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Need we discuss the qualifications of a pleasant memory this time, Potter?” Snape asked pointedly.

Harry almost scowled but managed not to as he placed his glasses on the bedside table, then lay back and closed his eyes. “No, sir. I got it.”

Think of a pleasant memory? Well, apparently the cupboard was out. Flying. Yes, flying was the first thing that had popped into his mind last time, so flying it was. He concentrated, imagining himself flying high on his broom above the earth, basking in the warmth of the sun and the chill of the wind.

The wind.

Doing his best to focus, he thought only of the whistle of the wind assaulting his ears. Focus. Focus.

“Okay, I got it.”

He tried to keep focusing on the wind and not on what Snape might be doing with his wand, and a moment later he opened his eyes in amazement when the sound of the wind actually was whistling around his ears. “Wow! That’s brilliant.”

“Brilliant or no, Potter, close your eyes and concentrate on the sound.”

“Oh. Right.”

It was odd, the sound of the wind whistling throughout the room, but not the feel of it. Still, he tried to focus.

Flying. Quidditch. Wind.

Flying. Quidditch. Wind.

Blocking out all else, Harry didn’t even get excited when it started to work, so caught up was he in his memory. As he slowly started to drift off to sleep, he even forgot about Snape’s presence as he focused on the wind and only the wind.

Slowly, ever slowly, he heard the freedom of the whistling wind calm his nerves and soothe his fears. He flew on his broom in the depths of his mind, alternately enjoying the freedom of flight and chasing a glorious golden snitch.

Ha! The feeling of triumph ran through him as he closed his fist around a snitch and raised his arm in the air.

He looked down, expecting the uproarious sounds of an exhilarated crowd. But there was no crowd.

It was Hogwarts. In ruins. Death. His friends.

His dream.

“No!” Harry awoke with a start and shot straight up in bed, gasping for breath.

“Potter?” A body was coming closer to him, and Harry frantically shuffled away. It stopped. “Was it a vision?”

Harry looked up into Snape’s blurry face, blinking as the images faded into the real world of his bedroom and his professor.

“Wha…what?”

“A vision, Potter,” Snape repeated, more urgently now. He sat next to Harry, grasping his shoulders before he could back away again, dark eyes watching him intently. “Did you just receive a vision from the Dark Lord?”

Voldemort? Harry shook his head. “No. Um, no. Just normal…dream stuff,” he explained lamely, allowing a final shudder at the horrible memory before forcefully shoving it from his mind. It was hard to do, but he gave it all he had. “Was…was I asleep for very long?”

Snape didn’t answer right away, just continued to search Harry’s eyes until he felt about ready to sink into the bed and never face the man again. Harry dropped his eyes to the blanket still covering his legs and grasped a corner with his hand— _anything_ to distract him from one more humiliation involving nightmares and Snape.

“Only just,” Snape finally answered. “No more had you appeared to fall asleep than you awoke quite abruptly. You are certain it was not a vision?”

Harry shook his head. “I guess that…um, that hypothesis didn’t work so well,” he offered, shrugging away from Snape’s hold.

Snape removed his hands from Harry but remained seated. “So it would appear,” he answered simply. “We will move on to the sense of touch.”

“So, um…I guess I’m supposed to imagine the feel of wind this time, instead of the sound, huh?”

“No. I am beginning to see the problem inherent in using your memories as a focus for your mind.”

“Well, before you try to say I picked a dud of a memory this time, I swear I picked a good one! I love flying.”

“I have seen you play Quidditch, Potter. I do not doubt the truth in that statement. However, this is the second time you have used a seemingly positive memory with negative results. The first time I gather you were simply unsuccessful; this time it led directly to a nightmare.”

“Yeah, so…what’s that supposed to mean, then?”

“It would be a reasonable deduction that your positive memories are too closely linked with your negative memories…of which you seem to have quite a few,” Snape added quietly, studying Harry oddly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the probing gaze. “Oh.” What could he possibly say to that? It didn’t take a genius who knew even Harry’s past few years to figure that out. Well, it wasn’t that Harry had bad memories all the time. No, in fact, he had loads of happy memories with his friends and at school. But…even thoughts of friends and school were enough to bring his worries to the surface again.

He swallowed, hard, at another thought of his vision…of his friends’ bodies on Hogwarts’ burned grounds.

“Lie back,” Snape ordered. “We will try something different.”

Harry obeyed, too tired to put up a fight.

Snape cleared his throat and reached out a hand, holding it just above Harry’s chest. “I am going to lay my hand over your heart, Potter,” he warned. “Do us both the favor of not expecting me to curse you this time. A temporary allowance of trust will be helpful, if not expected.”

He waited for Harry’s wary nod before placing his hand on Harry’s chest. Harry was at least glad that this time he moved slowly, giving Harry a chance to anticipate his movements. But still…he couldn’t help it; he flinched when Snape touched him.

Snape ignored Harry’s obvious unease to delve right into his next lesson. “Touch is concrete. It is tangible. It relies less on memory and more on your immediate perceptions.”

Harry lay still, barely breathing, the hand like a dead weight on his chest.

“Close your eyes and concentrate on the feel of my hand.”

Sure. Easy enough. Not like Harry could concentrate on anything else. He really, really wanted this—whatever this was—over with. Now.

“Breathe in. Breathe out. Think of nothing else.”

In. Out. Breathe. All the usual involuntary things he didn’t usually have a problem doing. He shifted, but the weirdness of the situation didn’t get any less weird. He opened his eyes and shoved the hand away, sitting up. “Okay, it isn’t working. Maybe we should move on to taste, now?”

Snape shoved him back down. “This is not my idea of an appealing evening spent either, Mr. Potter. Now, close your eyes. Concentrate.”

Concentrate. Yeah, right. He couldn’t. Several moments passed, and try as he might, Harry couldn’t focus on anything but the fact that Severus Snape’s hand was within gripping distance of his heart and within choking distance of his neck.

How was he possibly expected to sleep, knowing that?

The only thing that kept him from getting right back up again was the knowledge that Snape wouldn’t let him get away with it.

In. Out. Breathe. Try as he might, he couldn’t block all his other senses from operating in overdrive in his attempt to think of anything but how close Snape was to him while his eyes were closed.

A stair creaked somewhere in the house. Did Mrs. Black’s portrait hear that? Wait. Harry didn’t remember hearing a word from her portrait since they arrived. Was it still here? There were plenty of times they had to have been loud enough to…

Snape’s hand shifted. Oh. Right. Concentrate. Breathe in. Out.

There was a familiar scent in the air. Harry couldn’t place it. An earthy scent, such as he might smell in Herbology class. It was mixed with something…cloves, maybe? And other smells—potions ingredients? A hint of lilac…

It came to him that it must be Snape. But with Harry’s eyes closed, it didn’t smell like “horrible Potions professor.” It smelled…well, strangely like the long ago escape from a nightmare.

He knew why the smell was familiar: it had been the first thing to assail his senses when he’d been rescued from his death-filled nightmare back at the Dursleys. And it smelled like a presence he’d nearly forgotten, a presence that had spoken softly to him once within a dream.

With his eyes closed, it somehow smelled of comfort and protection. It smelled like safety.

He barely noticed when he began to drift off. He didn’t notice when the weighty hand was removed from his chest. All he knew as his breathing slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep was that with each breath he took, the scent of safety stayed by his side.

It didn’t leave until long after he had fallen asleep.

* * *

Harry felt the heat on his face first. It was a pleasant heat, like that of the sun on a warm summer day. He sniffed the air, smiling when the scents of freshly cut grass and popsicles entered his nostrils. Sure enough, he opened his eyes to an expanse of green grass bordering a shimmering blue lake. As he watched, adults and children alike strolled and played and sat under a sky which was the beautiful blue color that makes one believe nothing could ever be wrong with the world.

Harry felt his heart drop. One would think nothing could be wrong, but he knew better. Everything that could go wrong would, no matter the color of the sky. Everything always did.

“Harry!”

Harry started, turning toward a voice that was familiar but that he couldn’t quite place. It took him a moment to locate its source. A woman was walking along the shore of the lake, a hat hiding his view of her face, and she had a small, raven-haired little girl in tow. They walked past Harry as if they hadn’t seen him.

“Harry!” she called again happily, just in time for Harry to swivel to see her greeting an older version of himself. “Somebody’s been missing you.”

As Harry watched, his older self laughed and reached for the little girl, throwing her up in the air amid squeals of delight before catching her and holding her close.

“More, Daddy!” called the little girl through her giggles.

Harry froze and couldn’t hear anything over the rushing in his ears. Daddy? Him? _Daddy?_

He looked around. This was a dream. And it was very, very real. So the only question was…where was Other Harry?

“Right here,” came a voice to his left. Other Harry was a few paces away, lying on his back, eyes closed. “And you thought that I would only bring you visions of horror,” he commented with a smile, basking in the warmth of the sun.

“Horror is relative,” Harry retorted. “What is this? I’m not a dad! I’m not ready to be a dad!”

His older self kissed the woman, put an arm around her shoulder, and the three strolled away as if without a care in the world.

“And I’m not married or whatever, either!”

Other Harry opened an eye to squint up at Harry. “No, I should say not. You will notice that you are quite a bit older than sixteen here. There is no reason to believe that you will be forced to enter into the horrors of domestic bliss at this young point in your life.”

Harry crossed his arms. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“Yes, very much so,” answered Other Harry, rising to a sitting position. He was smiling, clearly enjoying this vision much more than the others in which Harry had found himself.

Harry’s heart sank as he thought aloud, “If you’re here…if I’m having a vision, then…clearing my mind didn’t work, did it?”

“It worked,” Other Harry said pleasantly. “I can tell. It is easier for me to reach you when your mind is free from distraction. I had an amazingly easy time of it tonight.”

“Oh. Um, alright then.” Well. That answered Harry’s questions about whether the usual rules applied to his own subconscious.

Other Harry gestured toward the retreating family, a silent bid for Harry to watch. Harry did, though he was lost as to the significance of this dream. If this was another future, it obviously couldn’t be a certain one, if a different possible future had involved his imminent death. But still, he watched, if for no other reason than to get to the point where he could ask some of his latest questions.

The small family stopped near a group of people, and Harry saw more than a few redheads throughout the group. He stepped a bit closer and made out Ron and a few of his brothers. Then he saw Neville and Luna and several of their classmates. He saw many more faces that he recognized, and several that he didn’t. And the children! There were children running around everywhere, playing with the little dark-haired girl who had called Harry “Daddy.” She obviously knew them well.

The next thing Harry noticed about all of them was that they looked so happy. They seemed carefree, as if they were out for a day of fun without the worry of attack or capture. Without the worry of war.

“This is a vision of what life will be like if we win the war,” Harry said, “isn’t it?”

Other Harry nodded, still smiling. “To be more accurate, it is one scene in that life. There will always be struggles and strife in this world…but this day…it’s nice, isn’t it? A life without the immediate threat of war. Wouldn’t you like that for your children?”

Harry sat in thought after another glance at the joyous gathering. “I…yeah, I mean, sure. But…well, I guess I haven’t thought about it much. I’m not old enough. And with the war and Voldemort hunting me and all, I guess I figure…I might not live long enough to have my own family.”

“It is possible, Harry—a life with loved ones and no war. It may not mean much to you at this time. You are, after all, more than slightly preoccupied with thoughts of adolescence and defeating Lord Voldemort, both grueling tasks apart from each other. But if the time comes for you to live—truly live—it would do you good to remember that this is possible.”

“So who is she?” Harry craned his neck.

“Who?”

“You know exactly who! The woman! I guess she must be my future wife, then, right? Well? Who is she?”

Other Harry grinned. “She will be the love of your life. It may not be prudent for you to know more at this particular moment in time.”

Harry scowled but didn’t pry further. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. He refocused his attention on Other Harry. “So I told Dumbledore and Snape about these visions…”

Other Harry nodded, patiently waiting for him to continue.

“I…um, I believe you now. About seeing the future and all. Snape said to still be careful, so don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes or anything, but…okay, so now that I know you know the future, can’t you just tell me how the war is going to end? Instead of giving me all of these _possible_ endings?”

“I wish that I could, but I cannot. It is as I explained before, Harry. Some futures are certain; some are possibilities. I cannot predict which possibility will occur unless it is revealed to me. I can, however, see the paths which lead to each future and will do my best to guide you to the correct one.”

“Guide me, huh? Okay, so what first?”

Other Harry chuckled. “This is not a to-do list, Harry. There is no step one and step two. There are merely a few facts of which you need to be aware.”

Harry stifled a barrage of questions, endeavoring to be patient while Other Harry settled himself back on the grass and began to share his facts. “The future I revealed to you in our first meeting was a vision of loss. This future which you find yourself in now is a vision of triumph. One will happen if you lose the war; the other will happen if you win.”

“And the vision of the basement? Of me being captured? What about that one?”

“That, Harry, is the turning point of this war.”

“I don’t get how it can be. I was unconscious; I couldn’t do anything. How can I change the course of the war in a moment when I’m paralyzed? Or do I need to avoid capture? Is that it? Wait, _can_ I? You said it was a certainty. Can one ever escape a certainty?”

“Harry,” his other self began slowly, as if delaying what he was about to say, “in our previous meeting, I explained to you that the outcome of the war depended upon you escaping from capture. I did not dare explain one more important fact until you had the chance to see the truth in these visions. Harry, the truth is…the war hinges on more than merely your escape. It depends also upon your capture. You see, it is not merely a certainty…it is a necessity. You… _must_ be captured.”

Both were silent for a moment as Harry processed the unexpected declaration.

“You…you’re joking, right? I definitely do _not_ need to be captured by Voldemort, thank you very much.”

“You must be captured, or Voldemort will win. His plan is flawed, Harry. He will gain strength, yes, but in order for you to be able to defeat him, he must be allowed that strength.”

“What!” Harry leapt to his feet, horrified now that he saw Other Harry was completely serious. “You’re trying to get me to believe the only way I can win is to give up and for Voldemort to become some all-powerful wizard? Snape was right! You _are_ from Voldemort!”

“Harry, listen—”

“No! Let me out of here! Go away and make me wake up!”

“It will happen soon, Harry! I could not keep this information from you any longer. You must be ready!”

“Well, I don’t understand, okay? If you want me to trust you so much, then tell me! Tell me how this will change the war exactly! How does making Voldemort the strongest wizard who ever lived improve my chances of defeating him?”

“If I explain all that I know, things will not happen as they should—”

“You sound like Dumbledore!”

“Perhaps.”

“Now you sound like Snape!”

Other Harry scanned the crowd of laughing people below. Sadness was in his eyes as he looked back to Harry. “This is the moment when you must decide, Harry. Voldemort will continue to hunt you until he has gained what he set out to do. I have seen the future,” he stressed fervently. “You believe that now. Even now, hearing what I have to say, I know that you believe it. Listen to me, Harry. _Voldemort will capture you._ If you allow events to play out on his terms, you will have no hope of escape. The war will be lost. This,” he swept his arms over the happy scene below, “will never be.”

“I don’t believe you,” Harry whispered, knowing even as he said it that he did believe. He didn’t want to trust this vision of himself, but he was compelled by something as unbelievingly strong as had once compelled him to catch a fluttering golden snitch.

He believed because deep down in his heart he knew it was true.

“If...” Harry licked his suddenly parched lips and crossed his shaking hands over his chest. “If I’ve got to go about being Voldemort’s prisoner on my own terms, um…well, what exactly are my own terms?”

“There is only one person capable of delivering you from Voldemort. Now is the time to decide if you trust him enough to place your life in his hands.”

Harry didn’t have to ask. They both knew who he was talking about. “And the time to decide if, by extension, I trust him with the outcome of the war. That is what it comes down to, doesn’t it?”

Other Harry nodded, his sorrowful gaze enough to tell Harry how sorry he was at having to lay this burden on Harry’s shoulders. “I informed you of the existence of the other prophecy for a reason, Harry. Having all of the facts...well, it seemed an important fact in this instance.”

Harry’s throat had gone dry, and he couldn’t even manage a nod. So here it was. The awful truth. Could he really, truly trust Snape with his life? With the war? _Snape?_

Sure, the Potions professor hadn’t proved to be as horrible a house-mate as Harry had initially dreaded. He had helped him, even, with homework and with clearing his mind. It was something that he was doing because of the war, but still…

He had comforted Harry. Reluctantly, sure, but…reluctance or no, Harry had _felt_ comforted. And then there was Sirius’s mirror…

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Harry asked woodenly.

“That is all.”

Harry nodded his acceptance, and a moment later, Other Harry had vanished.

Harry knew by now the nature of these visions. He blinked his eyes and tried to wake, just in case it worked. It didn’t.

It was odd, this feeling that he was awake but not actually being awake, and Harry could not figure out why, since he knew he was dreaming, it was always so difficult to leave these dreams.

Perhaps it was because Snape was the focus of his thoughts moments before, or perhaps it was his earlier dreamlike realization that Snape had been the presence to help him from his last two visions that caused him to think of the man now. He tried a few more times to wake, to no avail, then sighed and sat up on the grass in his dream and called as loudly as he dared, “Snape!”

He listened. Nothing. Could he hear anything outside his dream? He was new at this. He knew he was in his room asleep, but he didn’t know if anything he said could be heard or if he was just yelling in his dream inside his head.

He tried again. “PROFESSOR SNAPE!”

Nothing.

He sighed. It was just as well. It was a rather nice day in his dream. There really was no urgency to escape as had been the case with his first two visions, was there?

No sooner had he decided to lie back and enjoy the scenery indefinitely when he heard the sound of a door and footsteps. He looked around. There was no door anywhere near the lake.

“What part of _call the house-elf_ is so difficult to grasp, Potter?” came a tired voice from somewhere above him. But there wasn’t anyone above him.

Oh, yeah. Dream. Professor Snape. Right. Now that he was there, Harry was realizing the difficulty in separating elements of his dream from reality.

“Professor?” he tried, still not sure if he was speaking aloud or in his dream.

“Finally, at a more respectable volume.”

Harry frowned. Why was Snape being so snarky? It wasn’t like Harry knew how loud he could be heard, was it? Oh, wait. It was Snape. He was always snarky. Well, alright, then.

“Potter?” The professor’s voice was more alert now. No, not alert. More like on guard.

“I know it’s a dream,” Harry tried to speak to the waking Snape. “Are you real? Or a part of the dream?”

When his statement was met with silence, Harry sighed. It wasn’t real.

But Snape’s voice came again, closer and softer this time, “Where are you this time, Harry?”

Harry frowned again, confusion overcoming his momentary relief at being answered. Since when did Snape call him _Harry?_ He slumped back in the grass. So much for thinking he knew what was what. The Snape voice he thought was real was just another dream. He plucked a blade of grass and tossed it aside.

“Harry? Did you hear me?” came the soft Snape voice of his dream within a dream. “Where are you?”

“Go away,” grumbled Harry. “You’re just another dream. So go ‘way.”

“I am not a dream. _You_ are in the dream, remember?”

“I’m not as dumb as that. Snape doesn’t call me ‘Harry.’ Go ‘way. You’re not real.”

There was a pause, surprisingly followed by a chuckle and a dry, “No, _Potter_. I do not call you Harry. My mistake.”

Harry lifted his face. The sun was still shining down on it, and he thought momentarily about what it would be like never to wake. It was nice here. Why had he been in a hurry to escape it?

No. He shook his head. He couldn’t live in dreams. Not when the real world was counting on him. “Please…if you’re real, help me to wake up.”

“Here,” Snape’s voice came as a hand touched his chin. “Drink this.”

“No!” Harry jerked from the hand as quickly as he could. “I need to wake, not sleep! The vision can’t wait!”

Snape’s voice had lost its mirthful edge when next he spoke. “A vision? What was in the vision, Harry?”

Harry frowned. There it was—that name again. His, but the sound was all wrong.

“ _Potter_ ,” Snape tried again, “tell me.”

“Need to wake up,” Harry repeated. How many times did he have to say it?

Before he could think of another way to get his point across, he felt his upper body lifted and pressed to something warm and breathing.

“Focus, Potter. Focus on the waking world. Focus on the touch.”

A heart was beating next to his cheek. It was a familiar place, and the more he felt it the more a familiar scent filled his nostrils.

The moment he woke he knew it. Snape was holding him against his chest, as he had done once before when waking Harry from a nightmare. Harry had been screaming then, but he hadn’t screamed this time.

He felt safe like he hadn’t felt in a long time, and the oddest thing of all was that now he was awake, he couldn’t pretend to himself that someone other than his enemy was the one holding him. Or that he was unaware that he’d held on a few moments longer than he’d had to.

He breathed deeply of the scent of potions and safety before pushing himself away from its comforting arms.

He looked his professor in the eyes. “He…I saw the future again. We need to get Dumbledore. Now.”


	21. A Lesson in Being Gryffindor

“No! Absolutely not!”

“Professor—” Harry tried in vain to interrupt.

“Why are you still speaking? I said no!”

“Please sit, Severus,” Dumbledore intervened. “I do think we ought to hear Harry out.”

Harry might have laughed at Snape’s speechless stare if they hadn’t been in the middle of such a serious conversation. Ever since Harry had relayed his vision to the two professors, Snape had been ranting about the certainty of Voldemort having gained hold of Harry’s mind and the foolishness of doing anything other than destroying their connection, even if it meant giving in to the undesirable alternative of drugging Harry with twice-nightly doses of Dreamless Sleep. Harry’s suggestion that they at least talk about the capture scenario had caused Snape, to coin a Muggle term, to go off the deep end. Harry hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise since.

“Albus,” Snape said, “you cannot seriously be considering this for anything resembling truth. An apparition of dubious origin has given your golden boy the message that he should sit back and accept that his fate is to be captured by one who will both kill him and become invincible through the use of him! There is _nothing_ to _discuss_.”

“Sit, Severus,” Dumbledore repeated calmly. Too calmly. Harry looked closely and thought he saw a slight tremor in the old man’s hands. It shouldn’t have reassured him to see that, but it did. If a powerful wizard such as Dumbledore could feel uneasy enough for Harry to see it, then he felt a little bit better about his own simmering fear.

Snape sat in a chair opposite Dumbledore and Harry, his jaw set into a hard line, and waited in silence.

The drawing room felt very small to Harry, seated as they all now were around the small table. The fact that he was still in his nightclothes didn’t help; it only made him feel more like a little kid in the middle of a nightmare. Snape, on the other hand, was dressed head to foot in his usual black garb—only, lately he’d been without the robes Harry was used to seeing. Despite the solemnity in the air, Harry couldn’t help a curious thought: did the man sleep in his clothes, too? Just to be at the ready for emergencies such as this? (If he even slept, of course, which Harry thought remained to be determined.)

He picked up his glass of water from the table, taking a sip simply because it was there. Even wondering about Snape’s habits was preferable to contemplating the certainty of capture by his mortal enemy. He shivered and took another sip.

“Let us examine the facts,” Dumbledore said in a tone that brooked no argument. Snape crossed his arms in a childish display of stubbornness, which the headmaster ignored. “This person of Harry’s visions has seen the future previously. Two instances were so brief and inconsequential as to be easily explained away by an overactive imagination. However, in light of his more important knowledge of a prophecy previously known to only two trustworthy individuals, I…am inclined to at least explore the possibility that this vision of Harry’s is true.”

“This is foolishness, Albus! Even discussing—”

“And yet I have decided that we _will_ discuss it,” interrupted Dumbledore. “I have not rendered my opinion as yet, but every avenue must be explored and weighed and decided upon. The fact remains that Harry’s vision did hold a grain of truth that neither you nor I can deny.”

Snape scowled but said nothing.

Dumbledore explained, “Voldemort has been singularly focused on his goal of locating Harry. He will not stop until he has captured him and believes that he has obtained all that he can obtain from him. Come September, I…I am very afraid that just enough Hogwarts students are already loyal to Voldemort’s side to make Harry in grave danger no matter the protections I place over him. However, if Voldemort truly believes that he has accomplished his goal and that Harry holds no more gain or threat for him than usual, he will no longer actively pursue him, thereby leaving Harry free to prepare for his inevitable role in this war.”

Harry looked back and forth between Snape and Dumbledore in silence. He couldn’t help but notice that Snape flinched every time Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort’s name, though he didn’t harp on it as he always did with Harry.

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?” Snape exploded, leaning forward so that his hands tightly gripping the sides of his chair were the only things keeping him from rising to his feet. “This is not the first time he has sought Potter! What are you saying, that the Dark Lord _might_ have a chance of snatching the boy, so we may as well roll over and allow him to be taken? Turn him over ourselves, perhaps? Damn it, Albus! He may win the entire war; shall we hand over victory in its entirety right now? Give me the floo powder and a white flag. I’ll do the honors!”

Dumbledore said nothing for a moment, his pointed silence more effective in commanding Snape to get his temper under control than any words would have been. As soon as Snape leaned rigidly back into his chair with re-crossed arms, Dumbledore went on, “We also know that if Voldemort does manage to capture him at this point, there will be no apparent avenue of escape.”

“And just where will this supposed avenue of escape be later?” Snape argued. “Despite that apparition’s flattering assertions that I may be able to retrieve Potter, the Dark Lord is not exactly known for welcoming hated traitors back into the fold! My communications having been cut off from all save one decidedly unreliable source, it would be nearly impossible to discover where they are holding him, _who_ is holding him, _how_ they are holding him, how to penetrate that location, when—”

“Professor Snape?” Harry didn’t know how he managed to pull the confidence to speak loudly enough to stop Snape’s rant, but he did. Now that the attention was on him, though, his sudden inspiration didn’t seem quite so magnificent. “I, um…that is, wouldn’t he…let you back in if he thought you weren’t really a traitor?”

Snape sneered. “Thank you for that brilliant deduction, Potter. I do not suppose you have thought of a way by which I may convince one of the most powerful and intelligent wizards in the world that I am not the traitor I have already undeniably shown myself to be? I do prefer it to be before he familiarizes me with his favorite Killing Curse, of course.”

Harry licked his lips nervously. “Well…if you were on his side and just falsely accused of being a spy, wouldn’t it make sense that you’d want to prove yourself with some grand gesture? So…make a grand gesture. Something he would never think you’d do if you weren’t still his man.”

Snape laughed, but it was a laugh void of amusement. “Shall I lick his boots, then? Tell him a secret he already knows? Perhaps I should help him to destroy Hogwarts, aid along another one of your futuristic visions?”

Harry shivered at the reference. “Erm...no. Actually, I was thinking the grand gesture would be something more along the lines of…me.”

For once, Harry seemed to have surprised Snape into silence. Harry continued, “Well? It makes sense, doesn’t it? No spy for the light would ever willingly bring me to what he thought was my death, especially knowing that it would make Voldemort all-powerful, right? If we wait for him to capture me, you’ll still be a traitor and I’ll wind up dead. But if _you_ take me to him, not only will it prove in his mind that you’re loyal, but then you’ll be in place to help me get out of there!” Harry leaned forward, excited at how much sense it made. “That’s got to be what Other Harry meant about me going about it on my own terms! And if we do it right, Voldemort won’t even have to know it was you helped me escape, and the Order will have its spy back! It makes perfect sense, don’t you see?”

Snape said nothing for a moment, then abruptly leaned forward to better glare at Harry. “You. Are. Mad,” he hissed before abandoning his seat to resume his pacing around the room. He stopped long enough to send Harry another glare. “Completely _mad!_ ”

Dumbledore reached over and placed a hand on top of one of Harry’s. His eyes were kind. “Do you fully understand what you are suggesting, Harry?”

Harry nodded nervously. “I…I’m not saying let’s go ahead and do it, especially without a plan or anything. I’m just saying…well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Theoretically, I mean.” He searched Dumbledore’s attentive gaze for some kind of confirmation. “Doesn’t it?” he repeated, now kind of hoping the headmaster would say that it didn’t.

“To regain Professor Snape’s position and simultaneously remove you from Lord Voldemort’s most wanted list would be quite the accomplishment,” agreed Dumbledore gravely, and Snape shot the headmaster a murderous glare. Dumbledore added gently, “but, Harry…with your life on the line, it would be far from wise. There are many variables inherent in a plan such as the one which you are suggesting. I will not allow either one of you to risk your lives in so dangerous a plot while there is yet hope that we may be able to keep you safe from Voldemort altogether.”

Harry felt a mixture of relief and, oddly, disappointment. He didn’t know why he believed his vision so much, but he did. And as afraid as he was to be incapacitated in a cold, dark basement, something deep inside of him was screaming that it was the only way. That somehow, someway Voldemort’s plots and plans would turn on him, bring about his own downfall. That all he had to do was get through the ordeal, and the way to win the war would all become clear. Which reminded him…

“My vision self said that Voldemort’s plan was flawed,” Harry said. “He told me that Voldemort would gain strength, but that he had to gain that strength in order for me to defeat him. Do you know what he might have meant by that, professor?”

Dumbledore thought for a moment, a contemplative gleam in his eyes, before answering, “I do not, Harry. If given a certain amount of time to ponder the possible outcomes of Lord Voldemort’s plan, I would no doubt be able to uncover a host of possibilities. But…no, I do not know what he meant by that statement.”

“Does it matter?” Snape asked, having thoroughly exhausted the carpet with his pacing. “The vision is an unreliable apparition! We were willing to consider the possibility that it may be Potter’s Inner Eye, but in light of this revelation, we can obviously not consider that possibility any longer—”

“Why not? It saw the future!” Harry insisted.

“It saw pudding and cabbage, Potter! It fooled you!” Snape rounded on him, eyes blazing as he hissed, “And now it intends to kill you as well! Are you not the slightest bit concerned at the prospect of risking your life, you foolhardy, arrogant child?”

Harry felt his temperature rise. “Arrogant? We’re back to that? Well, why don’t you make up your mind already just what I am, professor? ‘Cause it’s getting hard for me to keep track!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, as if taking measure of Harry right then and there. Despite his anger, Harry shrank a little lower in his seat. Certainly, being appraised right then and at such intensity wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind when he had issued the challenge. He glanced at Dumbledore for some assistance, but the headmaster didn’t look too inclined to interrupt this latest argument.

“You, Mr. Potter,” Snape finally spoke, slowly and deliberately, “ _are_ arrogant.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

“Perhaps you are not arrogant to the degree to which I have supposed you to be these past five years,” Snape conceded quickly, as if to get the words out and be done with them, “but based on the simple fact that you are willing to throw your life away, without regard to those who may be left behind to pick up the pieces of your rash decisions, implies nothing _but_ a certain degree of arrogance.”

“W—what? Hold on! I’m not throwing anything away! I am thinking about everybody else, don’t you see? If I don’t do this, he’ll kill more people!”

“If you do this, he will kill more people through his heightened abilities,” argued Snape.

“So…what, then? We do nothing? Wait to see how many people he’ll kill before we decide it’s too many and we’ve no choice?”

“No. We avoid making a rash decision based on too little information, which will most certainly involve worsening an already dire situation!”

“But I believe the vision!” Harry exploded, startling even himself with his own vehemence. “I didn’t believe it at first, but even then, I knew I’d have to believe it, because I know that it’s real! If I don’t do something, if I don’t give Voldemort one small win, he’ll just go right to the big win and it’ll get worse for _everyone_!” he stopped abruptly, losing some steam at the very real possibility that if he _did_ get captured by Voldemort, he might be unable to escape. No. He shoved that thought from his mind and plowed on, “So other than getting you in place to get me out of there, the only other problem is that he could become more powerful after getting his hands on my blood. Well, if Other Harry was right, and his plan really is flawed, then that’s not an issue either.”

“ _If?_ ” Snape ignored Harry to direct his incredulity to Dumbledore. “We cannot hinge the war on “if,” Albus! Especially with a reckless plan that requires the discretion of a sixteen-year old boy unskilled in the art of Occlumency!”

Snape began to pace once more, his words gaining more momentum with each step. “If he _is_ captured, and _if_ I were back in the fold, the Dark Lord would see the truth in his eyes upon first glance, especially in light of the doubt Potter would exude at every difficult turn. The boy does not trust me, Albus! We have established that. While I am unconcerned with that fact in general, it is a given that at the first sight of me among the Dark Lord’s ranks, Potter would convince himself that he must act alone and indulge in one of his trademark rash actions, thereby betraying any plan to extract him, and by extension, both of our lives!”

Snape continued his rant, but Harry only half listened. All he could think about in light of Snape’s speech were Other Harry’s words:

_There is only one person capable of delivering you from Voldemort. Now is the time to decide if you trust him enough to place your life in his hands._

_Now is the time to decide…if you trust him._

It was all so odd, sitting here in the familiar surroundings of Grimmauld Place’s drawing room, contemplating the implications of allowing himself to put his complete faith in his worst enemy. Well, okay, second to worst enemy. Snape did, perhaps, rate slightly better than Voldemort.

His chest began to close in, and he forced himself to breathe. The situation was quickly becoming more real. The reality of being all alone in a dark basement, practically comatose at the mercy of Voldemort, with a lone spiteful Death Eater as his only route to safety…

Harry shivered. Other Harry had said he couldn’t get around being captured, and soon. But if he was right, then Harry also knew that he could get out of there…if only he could trust Snape.

_If._ That was a big word when pitted against his very life.

If he could trust Snape, Harry might have a chance to prepare to fulfill his own prophecy without the constant threat of Voldemort after him.

If he could trust Snape, the Order’s spy might be restored.

If he could trust Snape, whomever Voldemort had next decided to capture for information on Harry might be spared.

If he could trust Snape…Harry might have a future.

Despite all that he might gain, that was still a big if. He wrapped his arms around himself at more thoughts of basements and a super-powered Voldemort.

Harry exhaled loudly. He could be brave when it came down to it. He was a Gryffindor, after all, he thought with pride. But…that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared, or that he wasn’t feeling more terrified by the minute.

“I’d do it,” he spoke up suddenly, before he could change his mind or let the terror take over. “I’d do it,” he repeated to Dumbledore when Snape opened his mouth to rant again, “What…what I mean is, I—I can trust Snape. Professor Snape, I mean,” he added. “I…um, I’d trust you to get me out of there,” he added quickly to Snape, keeping their gazes level. He knew despite his words that he didn’t totally trust Snape yet, but he could _choose_ to, and that’s all that really mattered for this to work…right?

Silence fell on the room in the wake of his declaration, and Harry smoothed his fringe with nervous fingers. Dumbledore looked to be deep in thought, and Snape…well, Snape just looked taken aback. Well, it was really no wonder, Harry managed to reason. If _he’d_ heard _Snape_ announcing that he was going to trust Harry with his life, he’d probably be in a state of shock. Of course, Snape promptly adopted a scowl. Harry knew him well enough by now to know that the professor wouldn’t believe for more than one second that Harry really was capable of trusting him.

It was Dumbledore who answered softly, “Thank you, Harry, for your bravery.” He glanced at Snape, then said, “However, I do agree with Professor Snape that to proceed with a plot of that magnitude would be unwise. We simply cannot risk your safety.”

Harry nodded, eyes on the table. He felt relief, and at the same time, he felt doubt and guilt. The longer they put this off…the longer Harry continued to run...well, who would Voldemort hunt next in his quest to find him? Would he forget about Harry’s neighbors and go after his friends next? Hermione lived in a Muggle neighborhood…was she as protected as his classmates who had capable wizard parents and the security of magical wards? He didn’t think he could live with himself if something happened to her or her parents because of him.

“I should go,” Dumbledore said. “Discovering more about the possible ramifications of Lord Voldemort’s plan is most certainly a priority. I trust that the two of you will be fine for the time being?”

A response not forthcoming from either Harry or Snape, Dumbledore moved toward the fireplace, and few moments later, he was gone in a swirl of floo powder.

Harry chanced another glance at Snape, who was still glaring at Harry. Harry shifted nervously. Maybe he should say something. But…what? He’d already given a declaration of trust; any more insistence would serve only to convince both of them of the opposite.

Thankfully, before Harry could say something that he’d only regret later, Snape abruptly turned on his heel and swept from the room. He managed to make the move look menacing even without the benefit of his voluminous black robes. He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at Harry. “Come,” he commanded, then disappeared toward the stairs.

Harry followed, of course. Where else was he going to go? He’d never be able to sleep with all that was going through his mind, and homework seemed so trivial in comparison to thoughts of Voldemort and capture.

Snape had begun gathering ingredients by the time Harry caught up to him in the laboratory. Uncertain what was expected of him, Harry lingered in the doorway, watching Snape’s methodical movements. It didn’t take the professor long to gesture for Harry to take up his usual spot against one wall of the lab and to hand him a sheet of instructions.

“An Exceeds Expectations student should theoretically have no trouble brewing this potion. It is time to prove that your grade was not a stroke of luck or the result of cheating, Mr. Potter,” Snape announced briskly before moving to his own set of empty cauldrons.

The comment could have been entirely snide, prompting Harry to respond with a sarcastic response of his own, but Snape hadn’t said it with his usual degree of malice. It was a good thing, too, Harry reflected, because his heart wasn’t into coming up with a retort.

And so, with a shrug, Harry got to work, wordlessly chopping ingredients alongside an equally silent Snape.

It only took a few minutes of starting his brew and chopping ginger roots for Harry to acknowledge to himself that he was grateful to have something—even if it had to be Potions—to keep his mind occupied. Having something to do besides thinking about Voldemort or, even worse, explaining to somebody else what he was thinking about Voldemort, was…well, it was nice. Not that he would admit to Snape that he’d just thought of Potions as “nice,” of course.

Anyway, he still didn’t enjoy it enough to understand why Snape spent so much time at it. He could maybe understand why it had such a calming effect upon the man, though. Harry figured it had something to do with Snape’s love for solving problems and puzzles. Well, maybe all it took to make Snape bearable was a puzzle to solve, but the part of potions that Harry was beginning to enjoy was the mindless repetition of it all. Chop this, grind that, stir once or twice. It gave the mind a well-needed rest.

“What is your greatest fear, Potter?” Snape’s voice broke the silence.

Startled, Harry turned toward the professor. “Huh?”

“It seemed to me a simple question. If you require repeating, however, I—”

“No—um, I heard. I…w—what do you want to know that for?” Harry didn’t particularly like thinking about what Snape could want with the answer to that unexpected question.

“You recently asserted that despite my knowledge of certain aspects of your life, I do not, in fact, know _you_.” Snape pierced him with a stare so sharp that Harry immediately looked away. “Though I lend no credence to your vision, you nonetheless have suggested to the headmaster that we—you and I— may be approaching circumstances in which we shall be forced to trust each the other. You, that I will, in fact, deliver you from the Dark Lord’s hand and me, that your fragile grasp on Occlumency will not destroy both our lives. In light of that, I am well aware that despite your heartfelt declaration earlier today, you are _not_ prepared to trust me.”

Harry thought for a moment, then decided not to lie. “Okay, fine…maybe not. Maybe I’m not really ready trust you. But…but I want to. And don’t our choices define our actions? It’s what Dumbledore says, anyway, and I…well, I believe that.”

“Noble sentiment, Potter,” Snape sneered, “but noble sentiments mean little without proof. Prove to me that if the headmaster forces me to proceed with such a foolhardy plan, you will not destroy our chances of succeeding through a momentary lapse in your resolve to _choose_.”

Harry didn’t answer. He _couldn’t_ answer. There was no way, _no way_ he was going to confide something so personal to Snape. He clamped his lips together in silent refusal.

Snape stalked over to Harry, stopping short of touching distance, so that Harry was forced to look into the dark tunnels that were his eyes. “I am well aware of the impossibility of you, Harry Potter, willingly depending upon me in such a situation. Our past does not support your trust, and my performance as the Dark Lord’s servant would not earn it. You must realize that in a plan such as yours, the Dark Lord would use you in some capacity as a further test of my loyalty. If that were ever to happen,” he stressed, “I must know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you would not reverse your decision to see such a plan through to the end.”

“I don’t get it,” Harry said, unable to look away, “You want me to prove that I won’t give you away by telling you my greatest fear? How will that—”

“I want you to prove your readiness by handing me a weapon and trusting me not to use it.”

“But you will!” Harry insisted. “As soon as we get back to school, you’ll use any weapons I give you! You’re a Slytherin! And you keep trying to make me think like one, too! Well, maybe I’m not as cunning as you want me to be, but I’m smart enough to know that words are just words. You can say all you want that you won’t use it against me, but when the time comes, we both know that you will!”

Snape’s eyes gleamed with something nearing triumph as he responded simply, “As you say, Mr. Potter, words are just words. You can say all you want that you will rely upon me, but when the time comes, we both know that you will not.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but he shut it when he couldn’t think of a good enough retort.

“Now you see,” said Snape, turning back to his potion with an air of finality, “how foolish an idea it would be to surrender, even with a man on the inside. It is time to give up your fantasy of playing the martyr.”

“But—the vision said…”

Snape stirred the contents of the nearest cauldron with one hand, his back to Harry. “The vision does not matter. Even if it did, we would not embark on _any_ joint undertaking unless you could first prove to me that you were prepared to see it through to the end.”

“But what about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Well, you said yourself a few minutes ago that I’m not the only one who needs to trust! You need to trust me, too, right? So…what about you? How are you going to prove to me that you wouldn’t ruin the whole thing by doubting that I’ll do my part? If I’ve got to prove I can make the choice to trust you, then don’t you have prove the same thing to me?”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do!” Harry didn’t even care that he sounded childish, so indignant was he at Snape’s double standard.

“No, I in fact do not, Potter!” Snape turned back to face him, glowering. “I am your elder and an accomplished spy. I am quite capable of making sane judgments under extraordinary pressure. _You_ will complete this conversation because, quite simply, if the Dark Lord ever forces me to torture or maim you, the knowledge that I am not utilizing what I know to be your greatest fear will serve as a reminder to you that we are on the same side!”

Harry blinked at Snape’s passionate speech. “Oh…um. Oh,” was all he could say at first. “Well, why didn’t you explain it like that in the first place?”

“I did!” Snape sounded thoroughly exasperated.

“Uh, well, no. You didn’t.”

“I di—” Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose in obvious frustration. After a moment, he snapped, “Just answer the bloody question!”

“What good is it going to do answering a question if I don’t even know what point I’m proving to you?” Harry pointed out. “If this question isn’t only so I can prove to you that I trust you now, but more…more so you can prove to me that I can trust you later on…well, that’s a different way of looking at it, isn’t it?”

“I would imagine this would aid in both points, eventually,” Snape snapped.

Harry thought for a moment, not caring about Snape’s impatience to get this conversation over and done with. He studied Snape for a moment, then looked away. “You know, for all your claims to always be thinking Slytheriny—”

“‘Slytheriny’ is not a word, Potter—”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry said, “So for all your claims to be thinking Slytheriny all the time, I’d have thought you’d start out with the best way to get me to answer the question rather than beating around the bush so much.”

“And I’d have thought you would see what ‘beating around the bush’ has to do with cunning!”

“Not the way you defined cunning yesterday! Well…okay, it’s not like you really defined it exactly,” Harry corrected, “but you’re always thinking about how best to get what you want. I’d have thought you’d figured out by now…sometimes being up front with somebody _is_ the best way to get what you want.”

“Are you trying to teach _me_ a lesson now, Potter?” Snape questioned, and Harry couldn’t decide if the man looked amused or affronted. Maybe a little bit of both. Well, Harry figured, either one of the two was better than the anger that radiated just under the surface.

Harry couldn’t help half-smiling at the humor of the situation. “Er, yeah. Yeah, maybe I am. A, um—lesson in being Gryffindor.” He chuckled before he could stop himself, then immediately straightened his face with a swift glance at Snape. Still no overt anger. He let out a small sigh of relief. “You know, professor, just judging from everything you’ve got to have done for Dumbledore and the Order, and risking your life and all as a spy and everything, well…that’s got to take an awful lot of bravery.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed swiftly in suspicion of what sounded dangerously close to a compliment.

“I mean, I was just thinking…for someone who hates Gryffindor House so much, you…” Harry paused, collecting himself for the amount of trouble he was about to be in, “Well, you _do_ have the main quality of a Gryffindor.”

Snape visibly shuddered. “I am a Slytherin, Potter, not a sodding Gryffindor! Do not try to assign attributes to me which I do not possess. I am not in the least foolhardy or headstrong, as is practically every last member of that pompous House!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a bully!” Harry shot back.

Snape crossed his arms, jaw set stubbornly, before he deigned to answer. “I do not recall having accused you of being such.”

“Exactly!” Harry couldn’t stop himself from getting worked up now. “You yourself told me that people are sorted by their positive attributes, not their negative! Well, the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin because I had a thirst to prove myself, not because it thought I had the makings of a bully! So me saying you’ve got Gryffindor in you doesn’t mean I’m saying you’ve got all of what you think are the bad qualities!”

Snape narrowed his eyes again at Harry. “Are you trying to articulate that you are paying me a compliment, Potter?”

Harry flushed. “I’m just saying, um…well, I mean it…just struck me, is all, you know, that maybe you’re not as totally Slytherin as I always thought, just like I’m maybe not as totally Gryffindor as you always thought…or, you know, something like that…” Harry flattened his fringe as his ramblings trailed off. What had he been thinking, opening up this whole can of worms? He closed his lips firmly, determined not to open them again unless he absolutely had to.

Snape leaning his back against his potions table, arms still crossed. After a moment, he spoke quite suddenly, “I do not like you, Potter.”

The timing, if not the statement itself, was unexpected enough to cause Harry to look up. Before Harry could fully process it, Snape continued his calm bluntness. “I hated you, in fact, from the moment you were born. I will not bother denying a fact which we both know to be true: I would have been quite happy had you never come into existence.”

It wasn’t like Snape’s words were surprising or anything new...so why did Harry feel as if he’d been stung? “Um…gee. Thanks. Way to earn my trust,” he muttered darkly.

“Despite that,” Snape continued as if uninterrupted, “I have never wished harm to come to you.”

Harry stared for a moment, then shot back, “Like hell you haven’t!”

“Well, not permanent harm at any rate,” Snape conceded.

Harry just glared at him that time.

Snape threw up his hands. “Fine, Potter! I have never wished death on you! Are you quite happy now?”

Harry stared for another moment. Dare he say what was on his mind? And then he figured he may as well, if he’d been thinking it anyway while staring into the eyes of a Legilimens. “I don’t believe you,” he stated simply. “The only reason you maybe don’t want me dead right now is because of the war. Other than that, you’d kill me yourself. Don’t bother denying that _that’s_ a fact we both know, either.”

Snape held his gaze for a long moment, and at the man’s silence coupled with his piercing black stare, Harry felt a sudden chill consume him. Oh, god. Maybe it was the confusion of the past few days, but even as Harry had said the words, he sort of didn’t want to believe them anymore. Only now, looking into those cold eyes… he thought that maybe it was true. He backed up a step, hardly aware that he was doing so.

“I am not going to harm you, you foolish boy,” Snape hissed. His eyes still bore into Harry’s. “What is wrong with you? One moment you are headstrong, more foolish than brave, and the next you are cowering out of fear.”

“I wasn’t cowering!”

“No, Potter,” Snape agreed with surprising speed. “You do not cower. But you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I have learned in the past few days that I do not perhaps know you as well as I previously thought, but that one thing I have known since the first day you set foot in my classroom. I always knew when you were angry enough to nearly lose control, or intimidated enough to not fight back. It is a weakness that the Dark Lord will use and exploit if you allow him to see it.” That said, Snape turned back to his potions, visibly giving up on the fruitless conversation.

After a moment, Harry halfheartedly returned to his ginger roots, feeling stupid for his rash assumptions. It was just…that _look_ in Snape’s eyes. Harry knew he’d hit a nerve. Either he was right, and Snape simply had enough self-control to not kill him before the war was over, or he was wrong…in which case there was something else driving Snape’s hatred of him.

He’d never put a lot of thought before into why Snape disliked him, only that the professor was a git and that he didn’t like Harry’s dad. But he saw with real clarity at that moment that the person Snape hated wasn’t really Harry. How could it be? He’d never bothered to know the person Harry really was, separate from his father or his schoolmates. Snape had merely decided long ago that he _wanted_ to hate him, so he looked for reasons to justify that hatred.

“Why…why do you hate me, sir?” he asked before he could talk himself out of it. He braced himself for a sneering retort, but he suddenly really, really wanted to know. It struck him how surreal it was to even ask. Only a week ago, he’d have rather died a gruesome death than pose such a question to Severus Snape.

Snape’s movements paused, his back still turned to Harry. He turned slightly so that Harry could see his profile. His sneering profile.

Harry rushed on before Snape could deride his question. “Look, professor, you know now that I’m not spoiled, and _I_ admit I’m not the best student or rule-follower. But I’m not a complete idiot.” Harry winced at setting himself up for a scathing retort. He quickly added, “You hated me before you ever met me. It had nothing to do with _me_. So what is it? My dad? Is that it—is it all about him? Or Sirius maybe? Did I meet you as a baby and pull your hair? What?”

In contrast to the outrage Harry expected to see on Snape’s face, the sneer on his profile actually turned to a smirk.

“What?” Harry questioned, then started. “Wait. _Did_ I meet you as a baby?”

Snape turned all the way round, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. “Once. I sneered; you cried. It was very satisfying.”

_Now_ Harry was uncomfortable. “I…I didn’t know that,” he responded lamely.

“It was after…the death of your parents,” Snape offered guardedly. But he offered. And it was more than Harry had expected him to offer.

Harry barely knew what to say. “I thought I was brought to my aunt and uncle right away. How could we possibly have met?”

Snape shifted, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d have thought Snape looked a bit nervous. Then it dawned on him. “You went to see me? After I was with the Dursleys?” he asked incredulously.

Snape hesitated a moment before admitting, “I needed to know with my own eyes that the rumors were true.” He lifted his chin a bit, though it didn’t erase the distinct air of discomfort that surrounded him. “Very few people in our world knew about your relatives. I was one of them. So I went.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to that. The thought of Snape going to see him as a baby was…well, it was _weird_ , to say the least.

“If I had wanted you dead, Potter, I easily could have killed you then,” Snape stated evenly, and Harry felt his eyes pulled back to the professor’s black gaze. “You were unsupervised in your relatives’ yard, barely walking and unaware of the danger a visitor represented. I could have lured you away from the wards which surrounded you, but I did not. I did not harm you then, and regardless of the consequences I will exact upon you for wasting perfectly good ingredients on your failed potion, I have no desire to harm you now.”

Harry spared a glance at his potion, the murky substance in his cauldron attesting to its failure. Never mind that it was Snape himself who had distracted him from it. Harry didn’t want to change the subject though. There were too many important things to think about.

“You don’t want to kill or maim me, fine. But…why do you hate me?”

“What do you fear?” Snape countered.

Harry crossed his own arms, mirroring Snape. “Are we doing the question for a question thing again?”

“No. I do believe we are beyond that, Potter. From now on, you will answer my questions because you have made the tremendous claim of being able to _choose_ to trust me, despite all past and recent actions denying that fact. You will answer my questions because otherwise, I will refuse to even listen to any stupid, reckless ideas your juvenile brain may conjure up.”

Harry jerked his head. “You mean…you’ll consider the plan if I answer you?”

“I _mean_ that if Professor Dumbledore’s research comes up with something to corroborate your vision’s claims, I will _then_ consider the possibility of its merit.”

Figuring that was the best he was going to get, Harry reluctantly relented. Unfolding his arms, he leaned onto the counter as he considered his response. “My bogart is a dementor,” he began carefully, thinking. “Remus says that means my greatest fear is fear itself. But…um, lately I think—I think my biggest fear is actually…well, death.”

“Death,” Snape repeated blandly. “How ordinary of you. I’d think that you, with your rash behavior and penchant for attracting and looking for trouble—usually the kind of trouble involving the threat of mortal peril—could come up with a horror you fear more than a jaunt through a veil.”

“It’s not that,” Harry denied automatically, blanching a bit at the mention of the veil. He pushed an image of Sirius’s last moments from his mind. “I mean, not like you’re thinking. It’s not like I want to die or don’t get scared about the idea, you know. It’s just—that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean my own death.” He took a deep breath, then dived in, “I meant…death of people around me. They always die. Take my parents and Sirius for example. Just when someone starts to care about me, they leave me and I never see them again. And…” Harry looked away from Snape while he tried to come up with the words to describe what he was feeling, “And…it’s…um…pretty much always my fault. And that’s what scares me. I’m afraid that something I do or some wrong decision I make is going to be what kills my friends. Or that just knowing me might be what ruins their lives. See, I never had friends before I started Hogwarts. Not even one, not really. So I really need them—I need my friends. But…maybe they’d be better off not knowing _me_. And…um, that’s what scares me.”

The lab was silent for a long moment. Harry couldn’t meet Snape’s eyes after what he had just confided. Just as he felt he was going to die of embarrassment before getting a response, Snape said briskly, “Thank you. You may resume your work. Empty the contents of your cauldron and begin again.”

Harry did look up then, and stared. “Wait. That’s it? I tell you all of that, and all I get is a ‘thank you, you may resume your work’?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Potter; were you expecting to jointly commiserate over your confessions? I was under the impression you understood that I was not arranging the question as an introduction to a heart to heart chat.”

“Well, _yeah_. I know that, but—”

“But what, Mr. Potter?” Snape fixed him with an inscrutable stare. “I heard your answer. It was enlightening. Now resume your brewing.”

Harry turned back to his ruined potion as he was told, but not before muttering a few choice words under his breath. Of _course_ he hadn’t been expecting to talk about it, but he had been expecting…he didn’t know…some sort of acknowledgment, maybe? An answer to his own question, at least? It’s not exactly like that was the easiest thing in the world for Harry to confess.

Or, well…it _shouldn’t_ have been easy to confess. Harry stopped his cleaning as a thought hit him. Maybe _that’s_ what was so bothersome—even though his confession had been hard to vocalize, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as it should have been to confide such a thing to his hated Potions professor.

_Was_ he starting to trust Snape? Like, really trust him, not just claim to? Harry shivered and shook his head. No. He hated Snape! He’d sworn to hate him forever.

He turned his head to stare at Snape’s back. He hated the snarky, greasy git…didn’t he?

_Didn’t he?_

Before he could think up a proper answer, he hissed and closed his eyes at a sudden, sharp pain in his scar.

The last thing Harry felt before delving into Voldemort’s angry mind was a warm body catching him as he collapsed.


	22. Harry Potter’s Heart

He was standing in a large, dimly lit room, two wizards trembling at his feet. Rage overtook him, consumed him until nothing else existed.

“Fools!” he screamed, and the wizards flinched. “There were six of you. Six! And yet only two of you return to me. Tell me,” he lowered his voice dangerously, “how the Order could have known, could have been so prepared to attack, without their spy to feed them my plans. _Tell me!_ ”

“I—I do not know, m—my Lord,” stammered one of the wizards. “W—we were ambushed. They w—were upon us b—before we—”

“Enough.” He was through playing games. The ridiculous Order had succeeded in defeating yet more of his men, and he was no closer to his goal. The boy was too well protected by Dumbledore. The old fool had always underestimated him, had always wanted the young Tom Riddle to be no more than an ordinary, average half-blood. Ha! He’d defied those expectations, become Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard on earth, and yet _still_ Dumbledore thought that he could be outmaneuvered. Well, the old fool was wrong. The boy would yet be his.

Harry Potter had a fatal weakness that even Dumbledore was too blinded by adoration to see as a flaw. _He_ could see though. Oh, yes—he knew just where to strike.

“Potter! Push him out of your mind! Occlude. Occlude NOW!” A voice called to him, separating him for an instant from the boiling rage…but the voice was not stronger than the anger, which quickly engulfed him again.

He smiled as he called more of his followers to him. Only fools allowed their sentiments—so-called _love_ —to stand in the way of their ambitions, and the boy was undoubtedly a fool. They would strike now. Not at the boy…no, not at Potter. That was proving more costly and time consuming than necessary.

They would strike at Harry Potter’s _heart_.

“Potter! Listen to me! Remember our lesson. Concentrate on the touch. Use it as an anchor to draw yourself from his mind. Potter! Can you hear me?” The touch... What touch? The combined rage and thrill lessened for an instant, but before he could consider heeding the voice, a new wave of intensity swept over him.

He laughed in anticipation as one by one, the cloaked figures of more and more Death Eaters appeared before him. “Welcome, my loyal servants. Prepare yourselves. It is time to draw out the boy once and for all.”

“Harry! You must listen. Control your mind. Pull it away from his. NOW!” The voice was clearer and more insistent. He could no longer ignore it. He mentally grasped for something, not knowing what precisely he was searching for, when all at once he discovered it.

Cloves. Lilac. Dirt and clay. Strangely, it was the faint, almost undetectable spicy waft of cloves mixed with the earthy scent of soil and plant that brought him to his own mind once again. He breathed deeply. Slowly his senses became clear, drawing him up, up, away from the darkness of Voldemort’s rage.

Harry opened his eyes. He blinked into a pair of familiar black eyes, and it wasn’t long before he registered an increasingly familiar pair of arms holding him on the laboratory floor. He closed his eyes for another moment, took another deep breath to steel himself against his splitting headache, and pushed himself to a sitting position.

“I did it,” he said numbly through a painful haze. “I got out.”

“What did you see?” Snape asked. He removed his hands from Harry, but he still knelt beside him. 

Harry blinked, rubbing his searing scar. His head hurt something awful.

“What did you see?” Snape repeated impatiently, but at least this time he withdrew his wand to summon a potion from the cabinets which lined one side of the room. “Drink,” he ordered, holding a vial directly in front of Harry’s shaking hands.

Harry obeyed wordlessly. Or rather, he tried to obey. No sooner had he taken the vial from his professor than it slipped through his fingers. Snape caught it with his lightning quick reflexes, but not before half of its contents spilled to the floor. Harry cringed, but Snape didn’t say anything as he summoned another vial.

“Drink,” he ordered again, holding the vial while Harry gulped down the contents. He felt a calm instantly spread through his body, starting in his middle and flowing all the way through to his fingers and his toes. He breathed deeply, involuntarily leaning toward his professor as he did so.

“I need to know what you saw.” Snape’s voice was gentle but still urgent. “It was the Dark Lord, was it not?”

Harry nodded, but the nodding made him dizzy, so he stopped. Everything felt fuzzy and distant. He tried to figure out why, but it just made his brain feel even more muddled.

“Potter?” Snape’s hands grasped his shoulders, and Harry was sure he saw concern. But then again, things _were_ a bit fuzzy right then. “You are in shock. What did you see? I must know. Now.” There was a modicum of fear along with the concern, and perhaps that was what drew Harry from whatever state he was in. Those weren’t the main emotions one associated with Professor Severus Snape.

Harry absently noted that despite the potion’s effects, his entire body was still shaking. “Vold— he was angry.” He licked his dry lips. “He was really, _really_ angry. I…I think he lost some Death Eaters to some kind of trap set by the Order.” Harry watched Snape carefully for any sign of knowledge of a trap, but the man’s face was unreadable.

“That is all?” Snape pierced him with a stare. “There was nothing else?”

Harry shook his head automatically, then stopped. “No, wait. He was calling his Death Eaters. He has a new plan he’s working on, but he didn’t say what it was, only that—” He halted mid-sentence as an image came to him, an image he’d glimpsed in Voldemort’s mind as he’d pulled away from its grasp. He opened his eyes wide, panic setting in.

“The Burrow!” Harry gasped. His wild eyes met Snape’s. “He’s going after the Weasleys!”

* * *

Harry often had nightmares growing up, but the first one he vividly remembered occurred on the evening of his sixth birthday.

The Dursleys had ignored the special day, as usual. Dudley probably hadn’t even realized it was Harry’s birthday, for he had forgotten to gift him with an extra punch for the occasion. In fact, there really was nothing extraordinary about the day…except for the bicycle.

Dudley’s new bicycle was red, with black lightning bolts on the sides and shiny new handlebars with brakes, and the first time Harry saw it, he wanted nothing more than to ride it. For weeks it had been all he could think about. He could almost feel the wind on his cheeks as he raced it down the sidewalk in his mind. He imagined the looks of envy on the neighbor kids’ faces when he would squeeze the hand brakes and it would skid to a stop right in front of them. In his daydream, they came up to him to admire the bicycle, and they were so impressed that they wanted to be his friends, and they didn’t even care when Dudley tried to scare them off because they were impressed by how well he rode the bicycle and besides, they _liked Harry_ …

Looking back, Harry wasn’t even sure if what he’d wanted more was to ride the bicycle or to finally have friends. Either way, he should have known better than to try. He was six, old enough to have learned by experience what would happen if the Dursleys found out.

He’d never ridden a bicycle before, and when he crashed down to the sidewalk on his first try, he barely felt the skinned knee through the feeling of sheer terror that washed through him. The bicycle was scratched. There was a huge scrape right through the center of the lightning bolt, and anyone could have heard the crash, and he didn’t see anyone—but that didn’t mean no one had seen him. The Dursleys would find out, and he was already hungry and didn’t want to be sent to bed without food again that night, and what if they decided not to let him leave the cupboard to go to school in the fall and and and…panic set in.

As it turned out, the Dursleys never found out. But Harry dreamed that night that they did. In his dream, they found out and decided they’d had enough of him and sent him to an orphanage that was run by a big ugly giant of a man with crooked teeth and a wart for a nose. Harry was surrounded by boys his age, but every time he tried to make friends with one, the boy would turn his back on him or laugh along with the tall wart-man at how stupid Harry was until finally they all left. He was all alone and friendless and then even the wart-man left because Harry wasn’t worth the trouble, and the orphanage was old and scary and it closed in on him until it was smaller than his cupboard and he couldn’t ever leave and he was so so so frightened and he was sure he was going to die there…

Harry woke up after an eternity, plastered in sweat, and he never tried to touch Dudley’s bicycle again.

Harry was sixteen now, but he felt like his six-year old self again, trapped in an endless nightmare. Only, this one was real. He couldn’t wake up from the real world, couldn’t make it better by gasping or screaming or thrashing or changing the direction of his thoughts. Waking nightmares weren’t always worse, he reasoned. At least when he’d been captured by Voldemort after the Triwizard Tournament, he’d been able to fight back. He’d been able to escape. The sleeping kind of nightmares didn’t always afford him that luxury. In dreams, just when you thought you’d beat the bad guy, another one could come to take his place. You’d die and the people you loved would die, and you would wake up and realize it was all a dream only to have to relive it the very next night. It was awful.

But when the waking nightmare was to sit and wait and hope that people he couldn’t touch in a place that he couldn’t see were surviving an attack that he could only imagine…that— _that_ was real torture.

He had been waiting in the drawing room for what seemed like hours after Snape had disappeared in a cloud of green floo powder, and yet the hands on the clock moved at a frustratingly slow rate. Snape had told him to stay put while he left to warn Dumbledore and the Order about a possible attack on the Burrow. Harry had wanted to argue. He needed to go too. His friends were in trouble. He had to _do something_ …but he had bit his tongue and agreed to stay put, knowing that Snape wouldn’t leave until he’d won the argument anyway. The Weasleys didn’t have time to wait for Harry to fight a losing battle.

But now that Snape was gone, all Harry could do was wait and feel useless as his best friend’s family was attacked. Maybe even murdered.

He increased his pacing. He’d have welcomed anything, any word of what was happening, but all he heard for the longest time was the sound of his own racing heartbeat and pacing footsteps.

By the time the floo finally flared to life, he’d very nearly devolved into a panic attack. As each head of red hair exited the floo into the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, he’d breathed that much easier. First Fred and George came through, followed by Ginny and several Order members…then Mrs. Weasley, her face streaked with soot and lined with worry. He remembered her face clearly when he looked back on that day, but not as clearly as the face that came through next.

For years to come, his nightmares would be haunted by the white, lifeless face of his best friend in the whole world.

Ron wasn’t dead, somebody rushed to assure Harry as his limp, gangly body was carried through the floo. He was breathing.

But the instant he took in how many downcast eyes set in grim faces wouldn’t meet his eyes, he knew what they really meant.

Ron wasn’t dead _yet_.

And try as he might, Harry found himself in the midst of another nightmare…one from which he could not wake.

* * *

It was ironic, Harry decided later that day: all he had wished over past the week and a half was for anybody but Snape to show up and keep him company, but now that Grimmauld Place was full of people, he just wanted to be left alone. The old house was filled to the brim with tension, anxiety, and mood swings.

Harry didn’t cry—he wouldn’t let himself with so many worried faces looking on—but by mid-morning, he had given up on hiding from hugging arms and teary embraces, mostly from Mrs. Weasley, and by mid-afternoon, he had given up on getting any information out of the close-mouthed Order members rushing to and fro. In a sense, the unhelpful adults were helping him to keep his fear and grief under control, as he channeled those emotions into anger instead—anger that no one would tell him what had happened or let him know what was really wrong with Ron. The anger he felt toward the adults, combined with the rage he felt at Voldemort, coursed like fire through his veins. The only thing that kept him from lashing out in a truly magnificent fashion was the teary, worried face of Mrs. Weasley. He didn’t want to cause her more pain than she already had to be going on with. So he shut the door on his anger, allowing it to simmer in the back of his mind while he went through the motions of comforting Ron’s family.

Ron wasn’t waking up, and Harry didn’t need to be a Legilimens to know that all the sideways glances and deflection from the adults around him added up to the fact that no one was sure if he ever would. 

And the adults weren’t the only ones giving him sideways glances.

“ _What?_ ” he said more fiercely than he usually would have spoken to Ron’s little sister. “Tell me what’s on your mind or stop staring at me, Ginny. Please,” he added more softly, feeling a pang of guilt at the thought of her brother upstairs and the tears she’d been blinking away at random moments.

Ginny turned away, a tinge of pink on her cheeks, and laid out some playing cards on the drawing room table. It was some sort of solitaire, and the cards kept getting up and giving suggestions if she took too long to make a move.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Harry on the sofa and Ginny at the table. As the only two minors in the house, they had been directed to stay in the drawing room during each of the day’s Order meetings. Fred and George joined them at intervals, but even they weren’t in much of a mood to play games or visit, and they usually retreated fairly quickly to join the adults in the kitchen. Dobby couldn’t even distract them with his antics, for the house-elf had been occupied running errands for Order members all day.

Harry heaved a frustrated sigh and stretched out his legs, staring at the ceiling. This not being able to do anything was not helping his mood. He took a deep breath, then another, and glanced at Ginny in time to see her quickly avert her eyes again. He couldn’t even snap at her for it this time, she looked so wary of his temper. He leaned his head back to stare at the wall.

“Sorry,” he said after another minute of silence. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just…on edge, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured quietly, “we all are.” He heard her shuffle a few more cards around the table. “Do you…” she cleared her throat and asked hesitantly, “do you think he’ll be okay?”

He opened his mouth to give her the standard vague answers the adults had given him: _he’ll be fine…they’re taking good care of him…give it a little time and a healer, and he’ll be racing you down the Quidditch pitch_. Harry shut his mouth with a snap. He knew by the way they wouldn’t meet his eyes that they were only lying and deflecting his questions, which had only made him more worried and more angry. He wouldn’t do that to Ginny.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I think…I think it’s pretty bad.”

Ginny nodded, blinking rapidly as she moved another card. The card sat up in annoyance and demanded that she move it to a different spot, and she quickly covered it with another card. It grumbled but stayed put.

“So…is Snape tutoring you, then?” Ginny asked in an almost normal voice, and though Harry wasn’t keen on discussing Snape, he was glad for the change in topic.

“Not really. Er…well, I guess kind of?” Harry closed his eyes against a budding headache. “He worked with me on clearing my mind last night. And I’ve helped him in the lab some. He’s not exactly tutoring me though.”

Ginny said nothing for a few minutes, then said softly, “George told me we’re staying here now—at headquarters—until school starts. With you and Snape.”

“Yeah?” Harry cracked an eye open.

“Yeah.”

“Did he…I mean, has he heard anything about Hermione?”

Ginny shook her head and swiped at a tear on her cheek before moving another card.

Harry sighed again and stared at the ceiling, though the light didn’t help with the pounding in his head. He had to fight to hold back another wave of anger. Ron and Hermione were his best friends, but the adults couldn’t be bothered to tell him the truth about either one. They wouldn’t even answer him when he asked a basic question, like if they knew where Hermione was. He was starting to get a stomachache to go along with his headache, just thinking about what could have happened to her by now if Voldemort had decided to target her family after failing with Ron’s.

He sat up abruptly. “I’m going to lie down. I’ll be in my room if anyone’s looking.”

He waited just long enough for Ginny to nod, then he retreated to his room. Though he supposed it wouldn’t be his room for long. He’d probably be sharing it with both of the twins now that Ron would need a room to himself.

He flopped back on his bed. He didn’t want to stay there but didn’t know where else to go, and he felt overwhelmingly lost in Sirius’s old house. He couldn’t face Ron’s shell of a body, interrupt Mrs. Weasley’s grief, or deal with Remus’ half answers just then. Remus had been a constant presence that day along with various members of the Order, and Harry knew he was in the kitchen now…but the man had given him the same answers all the adults were giving him—empty reassurances, no details, and urges to go back into the drawing room and “let the grownups worry about such matters.”

Harry was sick of it. His frustration came back full force, and with it came the urge to throw something, hard. If only Sirius were here. Harry knew his godfather would have found a way to tell him what was going on. The danger and thrill of the war would be too much of a temptation to him to hold back, and the other adults’ overt concern for Harry’s wellbeing would be an afterthought to his godfather. Sure, Sirius was more like an overgrown kid at times—not really like the father substitute that Harry had initially wanted or needed—but at least he had told things like he saw them. He wouldn’t have walked on eggshells or acted like Harry couldn’t handle the truth.

Yeah…Sirius would have told him the truth. Why couldn’t anyone else see that he could handle it?

_Although_ … Harry sat up as a thought entered his mind.

Snape.

Unlike everybody else here, that man didn’t have any reason to coddle Harry. He certainly hadn’t tried to lighten bad news in the past out of any concern for how Harry would handle it. If anyone would give him the information he sought, it just might be Snape.

Excitement made his heart beat faster. The professor still might not like him, but they’d at least had to get used to each other over the past couple weeks. Being sought out by Harry Potter wouldn’t be quite as shocking to his system as it would have been a few weeks ago. _And_ he’d seen the man leave the kitchen for his lab several hours ago.

Mind made up, he charged into the hallway before he could re-think his plan…but he came to an abrupt stop in front of the closed door of Snape’s lab. Harry wasn’t sure of the protocol. Snape hadn’t taken to closing the door of his lab as much lately, so often was Harry in there with him, but Harry had not seen it open even once the entire day.

He knocked, shifting from one foot to another as he waited. He knocked again, and before his knuckles had finished their rapping, the door swung open and Harry nearly fell forward into the room.

“What do you want?” Snape glowered at Harry. It was obvious by the dozen or so cauldrons throughout the room that Harry had interrupted him in the middle of quite a bit of work.

He decided not to be put off. “I want to know what’s wrong with Ron,” he demanded, opting for the direct approach. “No one will tell me anything.” He lifted his chin. “I’m not a little kid. I can handle it.”

Snape didn’t move for a moment, still glaring, until he spun on his heel to stir the nearest cauldron. “Close the door,” he barked.

Harry wasn’t certain if that meant he should enter and then close the door, or if he was being told to leave, but he opted for the former. He took a couple steps into the lab and closed the door softly behind him.

The room was a bit hazy. The cauldrons were filled with various substances, none of them quite the same. Ingredients were scattered about the counters in an orderly fashion, some chopped and some waiting to be prepared. Snape was checking each cauldron in turn, stopping to stir one methodically before moving on to the next.

As he was being ignored and had already asked his question, Harry awkwardly stood in the room, not certain how he should proceed. He cleared his throat. “I—“ 

He was cut off by a sharp, silencing gesture from Snape, who proceeded to ignore him again.

Harry grumbled under his breath. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get his information if he wasn’t allowed to talk. After fidgeting for a few seconds, he grabbed a knife from the nearby counter. If he wasn’t being told to leave, but he wasn’t allowed to speak, he couldn’t think of many other options than to chop some ingredients. At least if he did it well, it might help his chances at getting Snape to give him information. As he began to work, he half expected Snape to tell him to stop. When the man merely ignored him and continued working on his potions, Harry found that he was grateful. He hadn’t known how much he needed this—a mindless something to keep his hands busy and his body away from the melancholy that permeated the rest of the house.

The silence was refreshing, and neither wizard tried to break it as they worked side by side in the potions lab.

* * *

Runespoor eyes were disgusting and messy and slimy and squishy, Harry thought an hour later, which made them loads more satisfying to smash than the usual boring ingredients. Why weren’t they on the normal curriculum for Potions class? It wasn’t like they were difficult to manage. He smashed another…and instead sent the slippery orb flying across the room into the wall, barely missing a steadily steaming cauldron.

Oops.

His eyes darted to Snape, whose narrowed eyes were already trained on him. “Mr. Potter. Explain to me the properties of runespoor eyes,” the professor demanded.

“I…um...”

“Do not stutter. I believe made its properties clear you only ten minutes ago.”

Harry cleared his throat. “They are unstable. And they…require a steady hand or else they…blow things up.”

Snape stared, and Harry got the feeling the man was less than impressed with his paraphrased description. “Quite,” he finally answered simply. “They ‘blow things up,’ particularly when carelessly thrown into nearly complete medicinal potions! Are you _trying_ to obtain more bandages, Potter?”

Harry gently rubbed the bandage on his hand. He shook his head and issued a polite, “no, sir,” not eager to upset Snape further, not while he still wanted information on Ron.

Snape narrowed his eyes, though Harry was becoming familiar enough with the professor’s expressions to know it wasn’t the sort of eye narrowing that meant Harry should start ducking or running. It was the sort that meant the man didn’t fully accept Harry’s response but wasn’t going to harp on it. Sure enough, he ordered, “Use more caution!” and turned back to his potions.

Harry couldn’t hold back a small grin. He didn’t know quite why, but being able to read Snape had lightened his dour mood a bit. Perhaps he could develop this summer into a new skill set. Snape Mood Reading. He could just imagine the trouble he could avoid getting into in Potions if he knew just what buttons he could push and when.

However, the thought immediately sobered him up. He’d almost forgotten—no Potions next year.

Which meant no becoming an Auror either.

Right.

Mood properly spoiled, he retrieved the wayward runespoor eye and concentrated on not blowing anything up. At least not until he got Snape to answer his questions. They had already been working for more than an hour, and Harry was prepared to stay all night if he needed to.

As it turned out, he didn’t have very much longer to wait. Only ten more minutes passed before Snape’s alert, methodical movements began to relax into a calm, steady watchfulness. It was a subtle change, but one Harry was learning to associate with the end of the professor’s brewing sessions. He focused more intently on his own task, senses on high alert for Snape to finish completely.

Snape soon stood over Harry’s work, inspecting it for precision. Harry figured he must have done all right, as the professor’s only comment was to instruct, “Clean your space. Preserve the pulp with two drops of solution.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He followed the instructions as quickly as he could carefully do so and waited patiently—at least, he hoped he appeared to be waiting patiently—for the man to finish up his own cleaning.

A few moments later, Snape leaned against his table and crossed his arms. He fixed Harry with a level stare. “What precisely do you desire to know?” he asked.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He’d expected to have to convince Snape to talk to him. A weight lifted off his shoulders. “I want to know what happened at the Burrow,” he said. “And I want to know what’s wrong with Ron.”

Instead of answering, Snape motioned for Harry to come closer. “Your hand,” he directed simply, holding out his own.

Harry quickly obeyed, holding out his injured hand for inspection. As desperate as he felt, he’d probably have handed over his Marauder’s Map just then if it would have helped him get answers about Ron’s condition.

Snape carefully removed the bandage and prodded and poked at Harry’s hand for a moment, then pronounced it nearly healed. He released the hand to summon a small jar of cream, which he promptly handed to Harry. “Spread this salve on the wound tonight and twice in the morning—once before breakfast, once after,” was his crisp order. Almost in the same breath, he said, “The headmaster dispatched members of the Order to the Burrow, by which time the attack had only just broken through the wards. They managed to hold off the Dark Lord’s forces long enough for the Weasleys to escape. Your Mr. Weasley was hit while flooing to safety.”

“Hit with what?” Harry asked quietly and perched on a nearby chair.

“They attempted repeatedly to target the younger Mr. Weasley. Even after the Order had arrived, all offensive attacks were concentrated on him. He might have been killed or captured if it had not been for the insanity of his brothers in setting off some absurd blasting contraptions. They were fortunate in not killing him themselves, the idiots,” Snape sneered, though without his usual malice.

Harry had no idea what contraptions he was referring to, but it was obvious that the twins had distracted the Death Eaters with some of their inventions. Harry sucked in a much needed breath, thankful for their quick thinking.

“Captured?” He grabbed hold of that word. “Do you think they meant to capture him?”

“We do not know. It is one possibility.” Snape didn’t have to say any more for Harry to know that if that had been Voldemort’s plan, it would have been for the purpose of arranging some sort of trade or trap for Harry. He bowed his head.

“The other Weasleys suffered no lasting harm,” Snape continued. “One of the twins was physically accosted but managed to escape. Part of a blasting curse caught the young Miss Weasley unawares upon commencement of the attack; however, after a few applications of burn salve, she has no doubt recovered to be her usual impertinent self.”

Harry’s heart sank even more, if that was at all possible. Ginny had been hurt too…because of him. He wondered why she hadn’t told him. “And…and Ron?” He prodded again, still scared to know the answer. “What’s wrong with him?”

Snape’s face remained impassive, clinical even, his arms crossed over his chest. “He is in a comatose-like state, as you have no doubt ascertained. As soon as we determine the specific curse that has led to his condition, treatment will be administered.”

“You mean...” Harry cleared his throat, willing his voice not to break even as it rose in pitch, “they don’t even know what curse hit him? He was hit with a Death Eater curse, professor! It could be killing him right now—”

“Yes,” Snape’s blunt reply cut through Harry’s rising panic, “it could be.” His steady stare was unapologetic at the harsh reality of his words. Still, the way he didn’t look away from Harry as he said it made it somewhat easier to hear, because at least Harry knew he was being told the truth.

Harry let it sink in. “I have to do something, professor,” he said. “I have to _do_ something. I don’t know what, but…I have to do _something!_ ”

“What you have to do is calm yourself,” Snape responded matter-of-factly. “There is nothing you can do that the Order is not already doing for your friend.”

_Yeah_ , he tried to calm his racing heart, Snape’s right. _They’re on it. They’re figuring it out…_

“No! I can’t just sit here!” he exploded. “There has to be something that I can do!”

“Like turn yourself over to the Dark Lord?” Snape hissed. His eyes glittered dangerously. “So help me, Potter, if you so much as attempt it—”

“I didn’t mean that,” Harry huffed. “I’m not stupid enough to just call up Voldemort—”

“The Dark Lord!”

“Why do you care so much what I call him?” Harry yelled. He felt the last strands of his temper snap, and unfortunately for both of them, Snape was in its cross-hairs. “IT’S JUST A NAME!”

“It is not _just a name_!” Snape said through gritted teeth. “It is _his_ name, and my reasons for not wanting it spoken are my own. As my student, you will respect me in this.”

“Oh because you’ve always respected me so well, haven’t you?” Even as he realized he’d lost all thought of self-preservation, Harry couldn’t seem to change course. It was as if all of the stress and anger of the day had converged into his chest at once and the only way to relieve the pressure was to lash out. “Well I’m _not_ your student anymore, am I? No Potions for me next year. I bet you’re thrilled about that, aren’t you? No Potter to bully or intimidate or blame for all your problems! No, I guess you’ll have to find some other pathetic soul to harass. Good thing there’s a fresh new batch of first years for you to pick from. Some poor naive little Hufflepuff might do the trick.”

“You’re hysterical, Potter. Get out before I throw you out.” Snape didn’t move, just pointed to the door. Harry could see the coldness in his eyes, but it only spurred him on.

“You’re not even a Death Eater anymore! It’s not like Voldem—”

“DON’T SAY THAT NAME!” Snape launched himself at Harry and stopped short of touching him. His lips were white with rage, and all Harry knew was that it matched the rage in his own heart. He almost didn’t regret pushing the man past the point of safety.

“Voldemort, Voldemort, VOLDEM—!” He yelled, and stopped abruptly as his head was thrown to the side by a sharp slap. Startled, he stumbled back, drawing a hand up to his stinging cheek. He felt his rage dissipate, as if startled from his body by the physical jolt.

Snape stepped back as well, his face white, his hands shaking. His eyes were wide, and despite their history, despite their long animosity, Harry knew that Snape was as taken aback by the slap as he was.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the sounds of their sharp breaths mingling in the air, before Harry turned and fled out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. He ran down the short hallway, up the steps until he reached the topmost room of Grimmauld Place. He barely noticed the dusty odds and ends of the attic as he collapsed against a battered old trunk and finally gave in to the grief he’d kept at bay since he’d seen Ron’s pale, lifeless face come through the floo.

The tears flowed freely, and he didn’t even bother to wipe them away.


	23. Resolve

It was dark by the time Harry emerged from the attic, and the house was quiet as he padded down the hallway toward his room. He’d skipped dinner but nobody had come looking for him. They had other things to be worrying about than him, he knew, and he was grateful that nobody else had been there to witness him sobbing like a baby. Now that his tears were spent, he felt lighter somehow. Not better exactly: he still felt the heavy weight of worry and fear. But he couldn’t muster up the burning anger that had simmered beneath the surface all day. In its place was a heavy cloud of exhaustion.

The uncertainty of Ron’s fate had been difficult to hear, but as Harry had lain crying, he’d felt a bit of hope shine through the cracks of his worry. It was somehow easier to know that the adults were baffled rather than to think that they knew for sure Ron was dying and had been keeping it from Harry. If they didn’t know what curse had hit Ron, then there was still a chance it wouldn’t be lethal. There was still a chance they’d figure out how to save him. Harry clung to that hope like a lifeline.

And it wasn’t lost on him that he wouldn’t have that hope if not for Snape.

Harry groaned miserably. He knew he’d acted like a prat to Snape. The man had given him more honesty and information than the whole of the rest of the Order, and he’d thrown it back in his face with a childish tantrum. Although he would never understand Snape’s insistence on not using Voldemort’s name, Harry wasn’t actually angry about it. More like…exasperated. He didn’t understand the man’s resistance. But angry? No. Harry had been angry at Remus for treating him like a child, angry at Dumbledore for probably directing the Order to keep him in the dark, angry at every other adult in the house for brushing him aside as if he were delicate, as if he couldn’t handle it, as if he hadn’t already dealt with life and death on more than one occasion…

Oddly enough, Snape was about the only adult that Harry _wasn’t_ angry with, even after the man had slapped him.

He rubbed his cheek at the memory, though the sting had long since faded. He wondered if he was nutters for not being even a little bit put out. It wasn’t exactly the done thing for professors to hit their students. Still…he’d probably deserved it. He’d known better than to provoke the man so thoroughly. He might even have been hysterical, as Snape had pointed out. If anything, the whole thing had been Harry’s fault.

He stopped outside his bedroom door and ran a weary hand through his messy hair. Just when he and Snape had begun to make progress, started to get past some of their hang-ups and maybe even started to build a tiny bit of trust between them, Harry’d had to go and mess it all up. He leaned his head against the coolness of the door frame for a full minute, then quietly opened the door. The twins were there and asleep, the sound of soft snores echoing through the room from a newly transfigured bunk bed. He tiptoed to his bed, pulled the covers over his head, and after far too long, fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning was a solemn affair. Mrs. Weasley, despite everyone’s attempts to persuade her to rest, had created a lavish feast. Only, it was far more lavish than the setting or the situation required, which only served to remind everyone of the fact that things weren’t, in fact, normal.

Snape was nowhere in sight, but Harry and the rest of the Weasleys were joined by Remus and Tonks, for which Harry was grateful. It helped to have some non-Weasleys at the dinner table so that Harry didn’t feel like an intruder to their grief. Tonks especially was good at lightening the mood…though not always on purpose, Harry reflected as her arm bumped suddenly into Remus, causing a forkful of egg casserole to projectile from his hands and cling to the ceiling. Harry ducked from his place next to Remus, narrowly avoiding a bit of cheese that fell to land on the floor between them.

“Oops.” Tonks eyed the offending bit of food on the ceiling as pieces of egg dropped onto Remus’ head. “ _Scourgify_. Sorry,” she muttered, though her apology was somewhat ruined by her stifled laugh at Remus’ expense. She had cleaned the ceiling, but his hair was now completely mussed and sticking out on one side where he’d wiped off the egg.

Ginny giggled and the twins even managed to grin. A glance at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, however, showed that they hadn’t noticed a thing through their distracted eating, and the table quickly turned somber once more.

Harry took the opportunity to study Ginny for a few minutes. Snape had said she’d been burned, but he couldn’t see any evidence of injury. She wasn’t acting injured, at least not physically, and he decided with relief that she really was all right.

“So, Harry,” Remus said quietly as soon as Tonks began awkwardly thanking Mrs. Weasley for the delicious meal. “How are your studies coming along?”

Harry stopped chewing for a moment and looked up at Remus. Homework? He couldn’t help the rude thought that Ron was upstairs fighting for his life and Remus wanted to know how Harry’s _homework_ was coming along? Just as quickly as he thought it, he pushed the resentment aside and swallowed his food. Remus was doing his best to deal with the situation, he knew that. They all were. Harry took a deep breath before he answered, intent on not losing control of his emotions again.

“S’alright, I guess,” he answered, matching Remus’ quiet tone. Ginny and Tonks had started chatting in falsely-happy tones about the latest all-witch band to hit the wizarding music charts, with George—or maybe Fred—halfheartedly interrupting to complain about their tastes in music. If anything, the false happiness in the room intensified the atmosphere of grief. Remus watched him, obviously expecting more of an answer, so he went on, “I’ve got my Defense and Transfiguration work done. Still have Herbology and Charms. I’ll get to it though.”

Remus nodded and smiled. “I’m certain you will. And Potions? Has Professor Snape been any help to you in your assignments for his class?”

“Uh…” Harry looked down at his food and stirred it around with his fork, but he was saved from answering by Dumbledore striding through the door of the kitchen.

All conversation about music and homework stopped as everyone said their hellos to the headmaster. He didn’t acknowledge the rest of the room until he’d greeted Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and asked how they were faring “in this difficult time.” It was a rhetorical question, everyone knew, but Harry could see that both appreciated it nonetheless. His greeting to the room at large was brief, and then his eyes set on Harry.

Harry felt like squirming, but he didn’t. He didn’t look away either. Merlin only knew what the headmaster needed, but he wouldn’t be here unless it was something important.

“Harry,” Dumbledore addressed him quietly, his eyes gentle, “Might I please have a word?”

Harry nodded, silently following the older wizard out of the kitchen. Once in the drawing room, they sat across from each other and Dumbledore immediately offered Harry a piece of candy.

“No thanks,” he said politely, waiting as patiently as he could to find out why he’d been pulled aside.

“I would ask how you are faring this morning, but we are all of us faced with trying circumstances just now, aren’t we?” Dumbledore placed several pieces of candy on the table in front of Harry anyway and sat back, sadness in his eyes.

Harry looked away and shrugged, but then he remembered what he really needed to know. “Can you tell me where Hermione’s at, sir? Mr. and Mrs. Weasley say she’s fine, but they don’t seem to know anything more…”

Dumbledore gave him a reassuring smile. “Miss Granger and her parents are well, Harry. They are under Order protection at the moment. No doubt you will be able to see her soon.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The Weasleys had been distracted every time he’d tried to broach the subject, but he could tell that the headmaster was telling the truth. He sank back into his seat.

“And I assure you, Harry, we are doing everything that we can for young Mr. Weasley. If there is an answer to be had, we will find it.”

Harry took a deep breath and nodded. “I know, sir. Thank you.”

“I, in fact, discussed the matter quite at length with Professor Snape this morning,” Dumbledore said casually as he unwrapped a piece of candy and popped it into his mouth.

“Y—you did?” Harry looked up at that to find Dumbledore’s watchful eyes on him. He couldn’t stop his hands from fidgeting, so he shoved them under his legs.

“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed. “He had several ideas about what may have caused Mr. Weasley’s condition, and as we speak, he is working on several potions that, when administered to Mr. Weasley, may help us to narrow down what ails him.”

Harry let out a small breath and even halfway smiled. Hearing that they weren’t going to give up was one thing. Knowing that they already had ideas and were actively working on them was far better.

“So that’s…that’s good, right?” he asked hopefully. “How soon until he’ll know if any of them worked?”

“The first will be done this afternoon. The longest brew may not be complete for several weeks. However,” he said at Harry’s alarmed look, “several brews will be complete between now and then, and we are also working on gaining information through other avenues.”

“What other avenues?” He asked immediately.

“Avenues that at present will remain known only to members of the Order,” Dumbledore said gently but added, “I only wanted you to be reassured that we are, in fact, working on it.”

Harry took a deep breath and let it out. “Thank you, sir,” he said finally, and he meant it. “It helps.”

Dumbledore gave him an understanding smile, then his face became solemn. “Professor Snape and I discussed a few other things this morning, Harry.”

Harry stiffened and braced himself for a lecture. Snape had told Dumbledore all about how Harry had lost his temper, he just knew it.

“I feel that I owe you an apology.” Dumbledore took a deep breath and let it out again. “Another apology, we’ll say. They do seem to be adding up, don’t they?”

“An apology?” Harry asked with a frown. “What for?”

“I seem to have made a habit of putting you in the care of those with whom you cannot feel perfectly safe. I thought it a necessary evil when I placed you with your relatives…but I had placed my utmost trust in Professor Snape’s ability to overcome his animosity toward you in order to provide you with safety and protection. I can’t tell you how much I regret that he could not do that, Harry.”

Harry was taken aback at the sadness in Dumbledore’s eyes. He was also confused. Was this about Snape slapping him? He thought it must be, because he couldn’t think of anything else it could be about. But it wasn’t that big of a deal, really. Not enough for Dumbledore to be this upset about it.

Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for a reply. Harry cleared his throat. “What…um, what exactly did Professor Snape tell you, sir?”

“He told me that he lost his temper and that he struck you.” The headmaster’s face showed a weariness that Harry had only seen a few times. “Harry…I know that it may mean little to you, as much as you have been harmed by the adults in your life, but I must tell you how very…regretful Professor Snape is that he hurt you.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. Snape? Regretful? He was positive Snape hadn’t planned on hitting him, but he wasn’t sure he could picture him _regretting_ it.

“I think you should know…” Dumbledore paused to conjure up two glasses of pumpkin juice. He pushed one toward Harry and took a sip from his own. “Professor Snape admitted to me that he has seen a different side of you this summer.”

“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” Harry pointed out automatically.

“Yes.” The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched up. “You may be adept at keeping secrets, but you have never been one to hide your true character and personality from the world. It is a compliment,” he added at Harry’s narrowed eyes. “While I do wish I had known more particulars about your home life before now, your character has always been one of honesty, fairness, and bravery. I believe that Professor Snape is beginning to see you as I have already long known you to be.”

“Only because he knows about the Dursleys.” Harry couldn’t keep a touch of bitterness from his voice. “He thinks I’m… _abused_ ,” he said as if the word offended him—which he supposed it did. He didn’t see himself that way, and he hated that anyone else might have a right to. “Now that he knows about my summers, he’s just replacing one view of me with another. Last month, I was a spoiled, arrogant bully. This month, I’m a poor pathetic weakling. What’ll it be next month?” He shut his mouth, having said more than he’d intended to say. He hadn’t realized until just then how much this idea bothered him. It wasn’t as if he needed Snape to like him, but they _had_ been more civil lately…and Harry had been starting to appreciate that. Was it ending as abruptly as it began, in part because Snape decided to get yet another false idea in his head about Harry?

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly and waited until Harry looked up. “I know this past year has not been easy for you. I am not so obtuse as to think that Professor Snape had nothing to do with that.” His eyes shone with regret. “I also know that you would rather that he hadn’t stumbled onto certain parts of your life these past few weeks. You have borne the pain and humiliation of recent events tremendously well. All the same, if I could have spared you from it, I would have.”

Harry blinked quickly and looked away for a moment. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of such guilt in Dumbledore’s eyes very many times, and he wasn’t keen on reliving it.

“I have received multiple updates from Professor Snape during your time here, Harry. Our conversations are confidential, of course, but you must allow me to say this… Professor Snape definitely does not see you as weak _or_ pathetic. And he is not one to believe that people are defined only by past abuses committed against them. His recent glimpse into your life has caused him to reevaluate some of his assumptions of you. To be open to forming new conclusions. That is all.”

Harry released a slow breath. That didn’t sound so bad.

“Which is why I had hoped that you two would finally learn to work together,” Dumbledore said sadly. “I am so very sorry that my hope resulted in your pain. Professor Snape will be moving out of Grimmauld Place as soon as he has completed today’s potions work, and—”

“What?” Harry was too surprised to feel bad about interrupting. “Moving? Why? Doesn’t he need to stay at headquarters?”

“There are other safe houses he can move into for the time being. He understands that my priority right now is your safety.”

“My safety…from him?” Harry asked, wide-eyed. He felt a sudden wave of guilt that by pushing Snape too far, he’d lost the man Dumbledore’s trust. There was a lot he still didn’t know about Snape, but he’d gathered that Dumbledore’s trust meant an awful lot to him. “It was just a little slap, professor. He didn’t try to murder me or anything.”

Dumbledore gave him a sad smile. “You have received far too many slaps in your life, Harry. I would not have you to think that they are normal or acceptable.”

“Did he tell you what I said? Last night. How I was…well, how I was taunting him? He didn’t just up and lose it on me for no reason, you know,” he felt the need to point out.

“There is never an excuse for physical abuse of a student, of _any_ child, Harry. Professor Snape knows my stance on that, and he has taken full responsibility for the incident.”

_The incident._ That sounded so…severe. “What does that mean exactly?” Harry asked slowly, frowning. “Is he in trouble over it?”

“The specific consequences will remain between me and Professor Snape,” Dumbledore said firmly. “But for now, he will no longer be responsible for you this summer. Now that the Weasleys have arrived, you will have plenty of supervision. They are, of course, distracted by recent events, but I expect that you are old enough to keep up on your schoolwork and Occlumency reading without prompting.”

Harry heard the mild warning in those words and decided he wasn’t going to test them by being lazy in the coming weeks. But homework wasn’t foremost on his mind right then. The word _consequences_ was reverberating through his mind. Snape wasn’t going to be fired, was he? Or put on some sort of probation? And would he be as safe from Voldemort somewhere else as he would be at headquarters? Not that Harry would usually have been upset over any of those questions, but this time he felt responsible. He realized that he hadn’t thought too much about the events of last night. Snape had, apparently. Maybe Harry should have too. He hadn’t seen it as a big deal—Snape’s side of it, anyway. Was he crazy to have pardoned Snape so quickly? Was he really just some poor abused kid who couldn’t spot the difference between normal and messed up adult behavior?

Maybe he was. He didn’t even know for sure anymore. But he had good instincts, that he did know. And his instincts were urging him to trust Snape. Maybe not _trust him_ , trust him, like not completely…but to trust him in this. Despite their animosity, and despite Snape’s obvious bias against him all these years, Snape had helped him and protected him more than once this summer. And Other Harry had even urged him to trust Snape. One slap, a reaction that Harry thought he might have even deserved, didn’t change that. Not in Harry’s mind, at least.

Dumbledore was watching him, letting him speak when he was ready. His words were halting as he tried to figure out how to put his thoughts into words.

“Professor, I don’t… I mean, I think you ought to hear my side of what happened too, don’t you? I mean, before you decide to punish Professor Snape.”

The headmaster studied him for a moment. “By all means, my boy. If you wish to confide in me, I have no other wish than to hear you out.”

“Well…” He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t really know how to start. He finally settled on, “I was really frustrated all day, you see? With Ron being…” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “I was upset. And nobody would tell me what was going on, what was wrong with him, where Hermione was, or anything. I was just tired of getting the runaround all day, and I just felt myself getting angrier and angrier.” He looked down in embarrassment.

“Far worthier men than you or I have felt such emotions, Harry,” Dumbledore reassured him. “It was a natural reaction to the day’s toll.”

Harry gave a jerky nod. “I went to Professor Snape because I figured he might give me the answers nobody else would. He’s done that before, you know. He doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile or like I can’t handle the truth. I guess…I guess I’ve come to appreciate that,” Harry admitted. He looked up through his fringe. Dumbledore gave him an encouraging smile.

“He answered my questions. Well, I guess you know that, since you talked to him. Anyway, there we were, just talking, and I started going off on him for being a bully in class. And then I mentioned Voldemort, and he wanted me to call him the Dark Lord, like he always does, and it wasn’t even that big of a deal in the moment, I suppose, but I just felt all of that frustration and anger from the rest of the day boiling up…and I yelled Voldemort’s name at him over and over, and I should have known better, and that’s why he got angry at me. So it wasn’t really his fault, you see? I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

Dumbledore gave him a small smile. “Your tendency toward compassion never ceases to impress me, Harry. Thank you for telling me the truth of events, and I am glad that you understand how disrespectful your actions were. However,” he paused until Harry looked him in the eye. “I stand by what I said earlier. There is _never_ a good reason for a professor to physically accost a student. I hope that you know that.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured. He _did_ know that. And he also knew that Snape had done far, far worse to him over the years in the classroom and got away with it. He really was the worst sort of bully, belittling him and taking unfair points and smashing his potions assignment. But for some reason, all he could think about was the forthcoming Snape of the last few days, and of the second prophecy, and how Other Harry was sure that Harry needed Snape if he was going to survive what was to come.

“Good,” Dumbledore nodded. “Now then, I’ll speak with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley about your homework arrangements. Like I said, you’ll be expected to keep yourself on track—”

“What about second chances?” Harry asked abruptly.

“Pardon?”

“I know some things just aren’t done, and you’re the headmaster, you can’t turn a blind eye to things that your professors do, but don’t you think sometimes people should be given a second chance?” Harry spared a thought for how surreal it was that he was trying to argue Snape’s case.

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “You really do have a good heart, my boy.”

That wasn’t an answer, but it also wasn’t a refusal, so Harry charged on. “I know a thing or two about being hit by a grown-up, sir,” he said and managed not to blush or look away. Dumbledore already knew enough about his childhood. No sense shying away from it now. “I’ve also felt my fair share of fear around Professor Snape. But last night…last night I didn’t feel afraid of Snape—er, Professor Snape—not even after he hit me, and definitely not like I do sometimes with Uncle Vernon. See, Vernon gets some sick pleasure from hurting me. It’s his way of feeling bigger and better than me, I think. But Professor Snape…well, yeah, he can be an awful bully sometimes…but last night, I…I think Voldemort’s name triggered something in him that didn’t have anything to do with me. It was like he was desperate to stop it, and he reacted without thinking. I don’t know what his problem is with using Voldemort’s name, and I don’t understand why he was so desperate, but…I really don’t think he meant to hurt me, only to protect himself in some weird, twisted way. He certainly didn’t look like he was glad he’d done it.” He took a deep breath and looked Dumbledore straight in the eye. “I don’t think he should be written off for this sir. I think you ought to give him another chance, just like you’re giving _me_ another chance after I was a prat to him.”

Dumbledore said nothing for a few moments, only studied him with assessing eyes. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, “If I were to do as you ask, Harry, you do realize that you would still be subject to Professor Snape’s authority for the remainder of the summer. Given recent events, are you truly comfortable with that?”

Harry couldn’t help a smirk, which he quickly wiped from his face. All last term, he would have done anything not to have lessons with Snape, and Dumbledore certainly hadn’t cared about whether Harry was comfortable or not back then. Now all of a sudden he cared? Although…he supposed that it actually sort of spoke to how much Dumbledore had trusted Snape, that he hadn’t actually thought Snape would physically lash out at Harry until after he did. Or maybe Dumbledore was treading more carefully these days after knowing about the Dursleys. Yes, that was almost certainly it. All this overreacting about a little slap likely had more to do with the fact that both professors now knew about Harry’s life with the Dursleys than about anything else.

Whatever the reason, Harry answered, “Yes, sir. I mean, I think so. Besides, my vision self seems to think it’s important that I figure out how to work with him, right? I don’t see how I’m going to do that if he’s miles away in some unplottable safe house.”

Dumbledore continued studying him until he finally nodded and slowly smiled, a slight twinkle in his eyes.

“All right, Harry. If that is how you truly feel about the situation, then a second chance it will be.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“I’ll speak with Professor Snape now and inform him that he can stop packing his lab. Would you like to accompany me?”

Harry quickly shook his head. The last thing he needed was for Snape to think he had done him some sort of favor with Dumbledore, or even worse, that he was trying to lord it over him.

Dumbledore smiled and stood. He reached out to pat Harry’s shoulder before he left.

* * *

The kitchen was considerably louder when he returned. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were nowhere in sight, but Fred was balancing atop a chair and gesturing wildly while Tonks, George, and Ginny shouted out random words.

“Ship!”

“Dragon!”

“Ooh, Hungarian Horntail!”

“No, too big. Hippogriff!”

“Griffin!” Ginny shouted so loudly that Remus jumped from where he was sitting at the end of the table, immersed in a book.

“Got it in nine!” said Fred with a grin. He hopped off the chair and gestured for Ginny to take his place.

“Wotcher, Harry!” Tonks waved. “Join us for a game of Wizard Charades?”

“Thanks…maybe I’ll watch for a bit?” He moved to sit beside Remus, who smiled up at him.

“How is Professor Dumbledore this morning?” Remus asked.

“Fine. He just…wanted to talk to me about some stuff,” Harry said vaguely, his eyes on Ginny’s interpretation of what looked oddly like a chicken doing the hula. “He’s with Professor Snape now.”

“Ah. I didn’t get the chance to ask you how Professor Snape is doing these days?”

Harry shot him a quick glance, wondering if Dumbledore had talked to him about what had happened, but Remus’s expression was politely neutral.

“He’s…all right, I guess. He helped me clear my mind the other night,” he volunteered. “I think it worked, too.”

“Harry, that’s wonderful.” Remus reached out to pat his hand. “You are making progress. It is also nice to see that you are getting along these days.”

Harry shrugged, suddenly worried about whether they actually were. Well, they _had been_ getting along better lately. Tolerating each other, at least. Now, Harry was wondering if they’d blown any chance of staying on that path. He may have forgiven Snape for his part in the debacle, but _Snape_ wasn’t exactly known for being the forgiving sort. What if he didn’t even regret their argument, just had told Dumbledore about it first to control the source? He’d surely be angry at Harry for acting so childishly the night before, and he’d probably be even more angry at Harry for intervening with Dumbledore on his behalf. Snape wouldn’t appreciate being beholden to Harry, of all people. He’d absolutely despised being beholden to James.

And then Harry had a thought. What if Snape had _wanted_ to leave Grimmauld Place? He’d been stuck here with Harry for over a week. What if he’d been thrilled to find a reason to move that Dumbledore couldn’t say no to, even if it came at the expense of his trust? Would he want to be away from Harry so badly?

Harry’s stomach started to churn, and he all of a sudden wished that he’d thought more about the consequences before so impulsively asking Dumbledore to allow Snape to stay.

“And he is helping you with Potions as well?” Remus prodded, taking up their earlier interrupted conversation.

Harry shrugged, not wanting to admit that his grades hadn’t been good enough to get into the class.

“I’m sure he’d be willing to help if you asked, Harry. Or I could talk to him if you’d like.”

“No,” Harry rushed to answer. “Er, no thanks. It’s fine, Remus. I’ve got homework covered.”

“Are you sure? I can look it over if you—”

“I’m _fine_ , Remus,” he insisted. “Really. I’m doing a little bit each day.”

“Alright, Harry,” Remus said softly. “I’m glad to hear it. Just let me know if you run into any trouble. I don’t want you falling behind.”

Harry felt his hackles rise. He knew he shouldn’t have been irritated. Remus meant well. But what did homework or school matter at a time like this? Ron could be _dying_! Because of Harry! And even if homework _were_ his most pressing concern, what business was it of Remus’s to check up on him? He wasn’t his dad or his godfather or even somebody who’d been in his life in any significant way since he’d left his Hogwarts teaching post. He’d all but disappeared from his life over the past two years, as a matter of fact.

He stopped his train of thought right there and took a deep breath. He was stressed out and worried and frustrated, and he didn’t want to lose control like he had last night with Snape. Remus didn’t deserve that, no matter what resentment Harry felt bubbling up inside him. He didn’t even know how much of that resentment was a direct result of all the stress and anxiety over Ron.

“I’m going upstairs for a while.” He stood abruptly, eager to escape Remus as well as the kitchen, with its false cheer. He didn’t wait for Remus to say anything, just slipped out the kitchen door and up to his empty room.

He flopped onto his bed, threw his fist into a pillow, and lay there for several minutes before rolling onto his back. But the quiet only served to compound his heightened emotions. Between being worried about Snape’s reaction to staying, worried about lashing out at anyone else, worried about Ron’s condition, and worried about who Voldemort would strike out at next, his chest felt compressed, like every breath was an effort. He let out a breath of irritation as some of the emotions he’d fought in Snape’s lab returned in full force. He needed to _do_ something! He needed to do something to help Ron, to fight Voldemort, to…

Yet, as soon as those thoughts ran through his mind, a rush of shame washed over him. He knew he needed to do something…but…he wasn’t doing the one thing he’d been assigned to do, was he? Here he was, frustrated by not being allowed to help in the war effort by the adults, but not once bothering to actually apply himself to learning Occlumency.

Harry felt ashamed as Snape’s words of the other day came back to him: _I see a teenager who has never learned the fine art of applying himself to occupations which may not entirely engage him._

For once, he agreed with the scathing assessment from Snape about his lack of drive.

Abruptly, he stood and reached for the book he’d left abandoned on the floor: _Guarding the Mind: A Beginner’s Guide to Occlumency._ He brought it back to his bed, leaned against the headboard, and, furrowing his brow, determined that barring an attack on headquarters, he wouldn’t leave this room until he’d learned the fine art of applying himself to reading, understanding, and practicing all he could learn from this book. No wandering mind, no distractions, and no stopping except to eat and sleep.

Ron needed him, and failure was not an option.

Taking a moment to clear his mind of everything else, he opened the book to chapter four and began to read with a determination that would have made even Hermione proud.


	24. The Mental Arts

Over the following three days, Harry read, studied, and practiced Occlumency harder than he’d studied for any of his OWLS. Even so, he knew that if tested on the amount of information in the book that he actually understood how to put into practice, he would barely scrape by with an Acceptable. He still didn’t grasp how he was to empty his mind of all thought when all he could think about was his friend lying near death just down the hall from him. Or how to let go of his emotions when the worry and impatience never fully left his mind.

He tried though, he really did. What had before seemed a pointless waste of time and energy had a sudden degree of urgency to it, and Harry was through with giving up at the first sign of difficulty.

And he _was_ starting to understand a few concepts. A light had gone on in his head when he’d read about the similar mental disciplines required to resist the Imperius Curse and to fend off an attack by a Legilimens. Snape had mentioned something about that in their first lesson last term, but Harry had been too nervous about the lessons to pay close attention. Reading about the similar skills now gave him renewed hope that maybe he had a chance of learning Occlumency after all. He hadn’t thrown off the Imperius Curse without difficulty; Occlumency would certainly involve difficulty as well. But it was no longer impossible, and that thought kept him moving forward in his studies.

He was even pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn’t all drudgery. Once he got past the dull introductory chapters, there were quite a few fascinating facts about Occlumency and tactics an Occlumens could use. It wasn’t all about fending off attacks, he learned; it was also about mastering misdirection. When he got to the chapter about ways in which strong emotion could be tethered to specific memories, which could then be used to misdirect a Legilimens, he read the chapter twice through and marked it for future study. He knew that skill in particular would come in handy after he had mastered the basics.

_If_ he mastered the basics. He held back a sigh at the unbidden thought and mentally corrected himself. _When_. _When_ he mastered the basics.

Because he _would_.

He stretched out his legs on the floor of the attic and sneezed as the movement unsettled some dust. He coughed as it re-settled itself, and he bent over the book to finish another chapter.

Since the Weasleys’ arrival, Grimmauld Place had become so full of wizards coming and going and whispering and crying, that Harry was hard-pressed to find a place to read his book or practice Occlumency without interruption. Even his room was out most of the time, now that he was sharing it with both Fred and George.

Harry didn’t much mind the arrangement, but being on top of one another did make it difficult to get any studying done during the day or to practice clearing his mind at night. And so each day he’d found himself sneaking up to the attic, the one place nobody else in the house ventured to go.

Everybody else was so distracted by Ron’s condition and the aftermath of the attack on the Burrow that as long as he made an appearance at mealtimes, nobody seemed to mind where he went off to during the day. Ginny threw him curious glances sometimes when he would sneak off, but she never asked him, and for that he was grateful. He hadn’t made a point of knowing Ginny very well before the last school year, but he was quickly coming to learn that she rarely missed a thing that went on around her. It was a product of being the youngest in an active house, perhaps. He was also gaining an appreciation for her way of knowing when not to push for answers.

“Harry?” said a voice behind him.

“Aaaaaa!” he yelled, snapping the quill in his hand. He spun around, then widened his eyes. “Her…Hermione? What’re you..?”

“Sorry,” Hermione took a step back from where she was standing, just inside the room. She clenched her hands awkwardly in front of her, and her red-rimmed eyes skimmed over the dusty attic. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you’d heard me come up.”

He stared for another moment before his brain caught up to him, then he stood and opened his arms. Hermione gave him a watery smile and let him envelop her in a hug. Neither spoke for several seconds, and it felt so nice, Harry thought, to know that he wasn’t alone. Hermione knew exactly how he felt about Ron. Neither of them was alone in this.

Hermione pulled back first, sniffing a bit and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“You too,” Harry said with a small smile.

“It’s…er, nice up here,” she said doubtfully as she carefully sat in the least dusty spot on the floor that she could find.

“It’s quiet.” Harry sat back down. “How’d you know where to find me?”

“Mr. Weasley,” Hermione said simply, and at his raised eyebrows explained exasperatedly, “You didn’t expect anybody to wonder where you’ve been disappearing to for hours at a time? Of course the Weasleys know better than to forget to keep tabs on you while Voldemort’s on the warpath.”

Harry shrugged again halfheartedly and looked down at his book. “You’ve, um…” he cleared his throat, unable to meet her eyes as he asked, “Have you been to see Ron?”

“Yes,” she answered softly, her voice wavering. She sniffled. “I sat with him for a while before I came to find you.”

Harry nodded, not sure what else to say. He looked up when Hermione laid her hand on his.

“It isn’t your fault, Harry,” she said, her face earnest. He tried to look away, but she shifted so that he had no choice but to look her in the eyes again. “I know you, Harry. I _know_ you, and there’s no way you’re not blaming yourself right now. But,” she repeated, more clearly this time, “what happened to Ron _isn’t your fault_.”

He could feel his eyes brimming with tears, and she let him look away this time. It took him a few moments to speak, so worried was he that his voice might wobble. He didn’t agree with Hermione that it wasn’t his fault. Of course it was. Voldemort never would have gone after Ron if he weren’t after Harry. But Hermione would only insist that it wasn’t if he pressed the issue. He decided that changing the subject was the best way to go.

“Are you here for the rest of holiday then?” he asked, glad that his voice was steady.

Hermione gave him a knowing look but let him change the subject. “Yes. I already moved my things into Ginny’s room. Mr. Weasley spoke to my parents and assured them I’d be safer here than anywhere else. They were quite worried, you know…” she trailed off, her hand tightening around Harry’s where it still rested. She took a deep breath and let go of his hand, reaching for the book instead.

Harry leaned back and watched her as she strained to lift the huge book to read the title.

“Occlumency?” she asked with some surprise as she lowered the book back to the floor. “Is Professor Snape giving you lessons again?”

“Not exactly.” She gave him a questioning look and he explained, “Well, he helped me clear my mind once. But he’s not teaching me Occlumency. Dumbledore is. Or, I mean, he will be. When he has time. I’m trying to learn it on my own, as much as I can, until then.”

“From a book,” Hermione said, a small hint of humor dancing in her eyes.

“Yes, from a book,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I _can_ read, you know.”

“Of course you can,” she said in a placating way, a smile pulling at her lips. “And you do it admirably well. It’s just…not generally your…well, your activity of choice, you must admit.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but thinking better of it, he snapped his lips shut. No need to make a fuss when she was perfectly right. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Ron when it came to studying, but he did much prefer learning through experience over learning from books.

He sighed, dropping his eyes back to the pages open before him. “I don’t know how else to learn it,” he admitted softly. “Lessons with Snape last year were doomed from the start, and Dumbledore’s away on Order business. He sent me a note yesterday that we’re starting our lessons the first week of school. But I need to learn it _now_ …and this book’s the only thing I’ve got that’ll teach me how.”

Hermione was silent long enough that Harry looked up at her. She was studying him, and from the look on her face, Harry knew she was trying to decide whether to lecture him about misplaced guilt or some such nonsense. He gave her a sharp look before she could begin, and it was enough to convince her to, at the very least, shelve that conversation for later.

She reached for the book again and scooted over so that they both could read its pages. “So. What have you learned, and where should we begin?”

He stared. “We?”

“Well, of course,” she said, already flipping through the chapter he had just read. “You need to learn Occlumency, and I am going to help you.”

“Don’t you…don’t you want to sit with Ron?”

She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Weasley’s with him,” she said softly and followed it up with a determined, “Right now, you need me more than he does.”

True to her word, Hermione helped him for the rest of the day, leaving him only to retrieve snacks and drinks from the kitchen. Harry had always been impressed by her ability to soak up knowledge, but even after five years of friendship, he was amazed at how much she was able to learn and explain to him over the course of one afternoon.

“Well of course, it’s only theory,” she said smartly when he said as much. “I understand what the book says, but I’ve no idea how to actually put it into practice. According to the book, part of the ability to master Occlumency involves having an innate propensity toward the mental arts. You’ve always shown more natural affinity for that than I have, you know, with your ability to fight off the Imperius, and cast the Patronus so young.” She looked up from the pages of the book to give him a pointed look, as if anticipating an argument. “That _is_ a spell that requires skill in the mental arts, you know. Any spell like the Patronus, that requires its caster to pull up specific memories or feelings in order to cast it shares a link with the foundational skills required to master Occlumency and Legilimency— Ooh!” She interrupted her own lecture to excitedly thumb through a chapter she had been looking for.

Harry waited patiently, and a few minutes later she looked up from the book and continued as if she hadn’t stopped, “Most of the D.A. learned to cast the Patronus, of course, but they had to try a lot harder and longer than you…not to mention they were older than you were when you first learned, and still none of us can cast it as well or as strongly as you could at thirteen. And hardly _any_ fully-grown wizards can throw off the Imperius Curse. You have a strong mind, and if what this book says is true, Harry, I really do think you might find Occlumency easier to learn than you think. You could _master_ it, even. Especially now that you actually _want_ to learn it.”

Hermione’s face had grown more excited the longer she spoke, and Harry felt buoyed by her words. They made him a bit nervous too: what if he proved as bad at learning Occlumency as last year and disappointed her? But with her help, he was starting to feel hopeful that he _could_ learn this difficult skill. He wondered if this was the right path that he was supposed to be on to keep his doomsday vision from coming true. Which brought up another question.

“How about…” he paused, unsure how to phrase the question that had just come to his mind. He didn’t really want to talk about his dreams, but he needed to know something. “Do you know if…well, if divination is linked to the same kind of mental arts? Not tea leaves and crystal balls,” he rushed to explain at her skeptical look. “I mean…Seers. Prophecies. The real deal. Do you think that somebody with a…um, natural affinity for the mental arts…might be more inclined toward the abilities involved in divination?”

Hermione cocked her head as she thought for a moment. Harry breathed a small sigh of relief that despite her general loathing for divination, she was taking his question seriously. He really wanted to know if all his unique powers and accomplishments were somehow linked. Maybe the possibility that he had an Inner Eye was tied to his abilities in the mental arts..?

“I don’t know for certain…” Hermione said slowly, “but from how this book talks about it and what I’ve read of the mental arts, I’d think there wouldn’t be a link between the powers. Not an evident or strong one, in any case.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could think to say. He looked back at the page Hermione had been reading. The answer didn’t disappoint him exactly. He’d just grown hopeful for a moment that one more answer about his strange new power would be explained.

But Hermione wasn’t done thinking aloud now that Harry had given her a new puzzle to sort out. “Prophecy doesn’t appear to require discipline of the mind, you know. From what I’ve read, one either has the gift or one doesn’t. Of course, some might disagree.” She rolled her eyes, and Harry was sure she was thinking of Trelawny. “But Seeing is more about opening your mind to a gift you already possess, I think. An Inner Eye isn’t a muscle that just anyone can exercise or develop. You either have it or you don’t. But the mental arts…well, anyone can learn them to some degree, can’t they? A person like you, with a strong mind and natural talent, just has more innate potential.”

Harry nodded absently. So his possible Seer abilities were something else, then. He didn’t know why, but now he felt a bit relieved at Hermione’s words, if only because he could put Other Harry on the back burner for the time being. If understanding his visions wasn’t tied to learning Occlumency, then he’d deal with it later.

“Are you thinking about the prophecy?” Hermione asked softly, studying him.

“What? No,” Harry waved that off. “Just curious.”

She gave him a skeptical look, and Harry felt his lips curl up a bit. Sometimes having a know-it-all for a friend was annoying, but it still was nice to have such a perceptive friend in his corner. “I _was_ thinking of something, but it’s not the prophecy,” he reassured her. “I’ll tell you all about it some other time though, okay? I promise. Just…let’s focus on Occlumency for now, yeah?”

Harry could tell he had made her curious, but she quickly agreed and they once more buried their noses in the book, discussing what Harry might be able to use as a mental anchor for an exercise in clearing his mind.

* * *

“Harry! Hermione!”

Ginny’s voice interrupted them several hours later, and Harry looked up, surprised when he saw that the light was fading outside the tiny attic window.

“Mum sent me to call you down to dinner!” Ginny’s voice was directly below the attic, and Harry grimaced at the proof that they really did know where he’d been disappearing to for the past few days.

“Coming!” Hermione called down as she jotted a few notes on one of the pieces of parchment she’d laid out next to the book on a newly clean section of floor. Harry had been amused earlier when she’d made him hold the book up so that she could sweep. The idea of working with a dirt-smudged book or parchment had elicited an actual shudder from her.

“We’ll work on the principles outlined in chapter fourteen next, do you think?” she said as she put her quill carefully to the side of the parchment and stood, stretching both arms. “Since you’re still having difficulty clearing your mind, it might be helpful to skip ahead to some of the mind strengthening exercises and circle back.”

“Yeah. That sounds good,” he said as he stretched out his legs, stiff from sitting on the hard floor for so long. When she started toward the stairs, he stopped her with a hand on her arm and waited until she looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Thank you, Hermione,” he said with as much sincerity as he could. “You’ve already helped me more in one afternoon than I’ve managed in three whole days on my own.”

Hermione smiled and gave him a quick hug before preceding him down the stairs.

Dinner was a solemn affair, as usual, and by the time Harry and Hermione reached the kitchen, they all but lost their feelings of excitement at making progress. It was easier, sequestered away in the attic, to imagine that the world was going on as usual and the most pressing concern in the world was to study.

And it _was_ pressing, of course. Occlumency was _very_ pressing for Harry right now.

But coming downstairs, being around the Weasleys, all he could think about was the latest reason why it was so pressing: Ron.

“How is he?” he heard Hermione whisper to Ginny as they settled at the kitchen table. Ginny shook her head sadly, which was all the answer they needed. Harry felt a familiar rock settle in his stomach, and he reached for a bowl of stew if for no other reason than to reassure Mrs. Weasley that he didn’t need looking after on top of everything else.

He barely looked up as the door creaked open, but he did a double take as Snape stepped through the door. Harry hadn’t seen so much as a glimpse him in days, not since…well, since the _incident_ , as Dumbledore had called it. And it wasn’t for lack of trying on Harry’s part. He’d knocked on the professor’s laboratory door several times, but it had remained closed and locked. It was just as well. Harry didn’t know what he’d meant to say anyway.

It was clear that Snape had been avoiding him. Harry usually would have been just fine with that, but he found himself curious about Snape now in ways that he hadn’t been before. He felt the strangest urge just then to say hello and ask how the man was getting along with his potions. Thinking of the reactions that would garner, not only from Snape, but from the rest of the occupants of the kitchen, he quashed the thought and looked back at his food without saying a word.

He watched Snape from the corner of his eye though. The man didn’t stay for more than half a minute. He walked in, accepted a plate of food from Mrs. Weasley with a murmured thanks, and walked right back out again. He didn’t look at Harry once.

Harry had no idea why that bothered him. He sighed as he chewed on a bite of stew. He felt more jumbled up than ever. He didn’t know if he was supposed to hate the man or be grateful to him, argue with him or pepper him with questions. He also didn’t know if Snape was holding a grudge against him after his behavior the other night…or maybe a grudge against him for interfering with Dumbledore. It was all very confusing and certainly wasn’t helping his ability to focus on clearing his mind.

He took another bite of food without tasting it and looked up to find Hermione studying him. He could already see new questions forming in her mind and couldn’t imagine how he’d be able to answer them when even he was confused about things.

Sure enough, as soon as they reached the attic again, she asked, “Snape’s still at Grimmauld Place, then?” When Harry merely shrugged, she went on, “Professor Dumbledore didn’t say anything about it when he spoke to my parents. Of course why would he? We were all rather focused on Ron—” her voice broke slightly but she kept on, “and also on you and the war and me possibly being in danger…” she trailed off before back to the point, “I’ve wondered how you two managed to get along after we left last time. You haven’t said.”

Harry started to shrug again, not in the mood to go into it, but he stopped himself after a glance at Hermione’s curious face. She was being the best friend a guy could ask for, helping him even though he was the reason Ron might be downstairs dying. He owed her _something_.

“He’s been okay,” he answered lamely.

“Okay…” Hermione repeated slowly.

Harry looked up. “Well…better than okay, actually. I mean, by Snape standards. He’s still a right git, but he’s helped me out a few times.”

“Really?” Hermione’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “So are you and Professor Snape on…um, good terms now?”

Harry smiled at her incredulous tone. “I wouldn’t say that. More like tolerant terms? Yeah, tolerant. I haven’t seen him in a few days…but for a while, it’s like we’d figured out how to tolerate each other. Most of the time. We kind of had to, being in close quarters and all.” He purposely didn’t tell her about their last meeting. He wasn’t sure he wanted to until he’d managed to get Snape to talk to him again.

Hermione studied him for a few seconds, looking as if she wanted to say something. Harry ducked his head and absently flipped a page in the Occlumency book.

“If things are better now…and he’s already helped you out…” Hermione paused, seemingly searching for the right words, and Harry tensed, knowing exactly where her mind was going, “why…well, why couldn’t you resume your Occlumency lessons now?”

“No,” Harry said immediately.

“Harry—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I might not mind too much spending time in his potions lab these days, but no way am I letting him into my mind again.”

“Dumbledore trusts—”

“I _know_ , Hermione,” he made an effort to keep his voice down, not wanting to yell at her. “I know Dumbledore trusts him, okay? That’s not the problem. I’m not even sure I _don’t_ trust him anymore. I even think it’s possible he might actually be on our side now. I know, breathe. Doesn’t mean I want him digging around my brain. Do you think I want to let just anybody in my mind? See my deepest secrets? Know everything about me? Would _you_ like that?”

Hermione was silent for a moment, then softly answered, “No. No, Harry, you’re right, I wouldn’t.”

Harry nodded, ready to get on with studying, but she wasn’t done. She laid her hand on his arm and gave him such an earnest look that he knew no matter how much he disagreed with what she was about to say, he’d listen. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’d do it if it was the only way. And I think you would too.”

“It’s not the only way,” he weakly protested, waving his hand at them and the book. “We’re making progress, Hermione.”

“Yes. We are. I’m just…” Hermione bit her lip. “Look, I know I’ve only been helping you for less than a day, but you’ve been trying and failing to clear your mind for more than half a year now. The more I read about Occlumency, the more I’m worried that theory isn’t going to help you as much as working with a Master Occlumens would.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, tired. He didn’t have it in him to argue any more. He knew she was right. He was proud of the progress he’d made in understanding Occlumency, but he was still struggling with the application. Hermione learned through books, but he learned best by being _shown_ how to do something. He still wasn’t convinced that Snape was the right person to show him, but logically he knew the man was all he had available to him at the moment.

“He wouldn’t teach me now even if I asked,” Harry finally said, defeated. “Even if I wanted him to, even if I asked him to teach me again, he’s the one who ended lessons in the first place. With good reason, too. I betrayed him, snooped into his memories.”

“So apologize,” Hermione said, as if it were that easy, and Harry scoffed. “Well, Harry, it’s obvious that you feel bad about it. Even if he doesn’t accept your apology, or agree to teach you, apologizing is the right thing to do when you regret wronging somebody.”

"Yeah, well, I'm not the only one who needs to apologize," he muttered darkly. He knew he sounded childish, but still…

"Of course not," Hermione agreed. "He's been plain awful to you, to all of us, right from the beginning. And he's the adult. He should have known better. But Harry," she patted his sleeve. "If we all waited to apologize until the other person did first—even if they're more in the wrong than we are—nobody would ever apologize for their part in anything, would they?"

Harry thought on that for a moment, and Hermione let him, leaning back to rest her weight on her hands.

He finally sighed. "I'll...I’ll think about it. It'd probably come back to bite me though. He’s as Slytherin as they come. He sees plots and plans everywhere. He'd probably think I was apologizing just to spite him or show him up or get something out of him." He paused, mulling that thought over in his head. "Which is true, isn't it? If I go in there because I want help with Occlumency, he’ll know that's my real motivation in an instant. He'd kick me out before I got two words out, and fat chance he'd ever even consider—"

"Well, aren't you sorry for real?"

"Yeah, 'course I am. I was sorry as soon as I did it. But he'll never believe it."

"You can't help that. You're sincere, that's what matters, and that's all you can be. If he doesn't see it, well..." She shrugged.

"Easy for you to say," he muttered. "You're not the one who has to contemplate getting skewered alive for 'daring to put on an act of repentance to manipulate...um, something or other.' Huh…though he might actually prefer me to get all manipulative, come to think of it. He _did_ want to act more like a Slytherin."

Hermione gave him a puzzled smile. “Sometime you’re going to have to tell me exactly what happened this summer.”

His thoughts darted to an image of Snape comically dressed in Dudley’s clothes at the Dursleys, and he smiled. He nearly laughed out loud at the memory, but then his mind also pulled up an image of Vernon violently shaking his already bruised body in front of Snape. “Uh, yeah. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” _Just not all of it_ , he tacked on silently.

Satisfied, she let the topic drop and began helping him through a mind strengthening exercise.

They stayed at it for several more hours, until Mrs. Weasley called for everyone to get ready for bed. Harry rubbed his temples in exhaustion as they made their way through the house to their rooms. He’d had a bit more success with the third exercise they tried, but even Hermione was starting to show some frustration at how long it was taking them to make real progress. They were used to the cycle by now: Hermione would read a passage aloud, Harry would understand it in part until Hermione explained it to him in simple English, the light would go on for him, he’d beginning practicing, and then…nothing. Or maybe some progress, but not enough. Thanks to Hermione, he understood what the book was telling him to do now; he just couldn’t quite figure out how it translated into practice.

As grateful as he was to Hermione for her help today, he was even more frustrated knowing that even with her excellent help, he still couldn’t master a simple mental exercise.

* * *

Almost without thinking about it, he found himself veering away from his own hallway after he parted ways with Hermione. He soon found himself in front of Snape’s closed laboratory door, where he’d found himself multiple times since their argument. A light escaped through the cracks of the door, and Harry heard the faint swish of sound from within. He knocked before he could talk himself out of it.

There was no answer, just like every other time he had tried. Snape _definitely_ was avoiding him, if he could pretend not to hear him at this time of the evening when all was quiet and the house was settling into sleep. It was blatantly obvious to anyone standing outside that Snape was within. He wasn’t even _trying_ to hide the fact that he was ignoring Harry.

Taking a deep breath, he said as loudly as he dared, “I’m not going anywhere. If you don’t answer, I’ll just sit right here and wait until you leave to eat or use the loo.”

Still no answer. Harry narrowed his eyes and looked around for a place to sit. He was tired and wanted to go to bed, but he could at least settle in for a little while to show Snape that he was serious.

He’d no sooner sat down than the door was yanked open. Harry took in Snape’s stern face, how his lips were set in a thin line, his hair even more lank and greasy than usual, and then he scrambled to his feet.

“Can I come in?”

“No, you may not come in,” Snape bit out. “I am working on highly sensitive and volatile potions that require my complete concentration.”

“I could help,” Harry offered quickly. The repetitive motion of chopping ingredients suddenly sounded like an excellent way to clear away the stress of his Occlumency failures.

“No.”

“I won’t be in the way, I swear. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Highly doubtful,” Snape sneered and moved to close the door.

“Wait!” Harry wedged his foot into the door to block it. “Do you have any Dreamless Sleep?”

Harry didn’t need Dreamless Sleep, at least not right then. Asking for a potion just seemed the best way to get Snape to keep talking to him, and Dreamless Sleep was the first that came to mind. It worked, as Snape paused and then opened the door a bit wider.

“Have you had a vision?” he asked, eyes scanning Harry’s face.

“No,” he admitted. “Just…dreams. Not _that_ kind of dreams,” he added quickly at Snape’s sharp glance. “Just regular dreams.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d been having bad dreams every night since the attack on the Burrow. He didn’t intend to use Dreamless Sleep unless he had to, but now that he’d asked for it, it did seem like a really good idea to stock up.

Snape held the door in place for a long moment, seeming to have an internal battle with himself, before he opened it completely and brusquely gestured for Harry to enter.

Harry waved a hand in front of his face and coughed as he walked into the laboratory. It was positively hazy, the air cloudy with some sort of thin mist. He could make out a line of cauldrons, all in various stages of simmering and stasis. Ingredients were lined up before them, some whole, some chopped or crushed.

“Are these all for Ron?” he asked.

Snape ignored his question as he stalked over to a cabinet in the corner. The sound of bottles clinking together filled the room, and then he walked back over to Harry and handed him a small vial of purple liquid.

“Do not drink it all at once. A few sips before sleep will suffice,” he instructed and then gestured for Harry to leave through the still-open door.

“Are you sure you don’t want help—”

“Go to bed, Potter,” Snape said, and for the first time Harry could see weariness in the professor’s face and in the droop of his shoulders. He thought, seeing that, that maybe he should do as the man said and leave…but what if Snape continued to ignore him? When else was he going to be able to clear the air?

“I am sorry, you know,” he blurted out before he could talk himself out of it. “I know I was out of line the other night…and I’m sorry.”

Snape stilled, his hand in mid-air while reaching for the door, and Harry fidgeted in the long seconds before the man turned back around to study him with those all-seeing dark eyes. He was sporting his expressionless face, but he wasn’t doing as good a job of keeping it in place as usual, for Harry could still see the edges of exhaustion in his eyes and in the heavy way he moved. He felt a twinge of guilt then. Was he selfish to assume that the professor had been avoiding him? Perhaps he was so busy with brewing and Order business that he hadn’t had time to bother with Harry’s insignificant needs. Now he felt the urge to apologize again, this time for bothering the man’s work, but he held his tongue. Who knew how even one apology would be received tonight? He shifted, uncomfortable under the man’s assessing gaze.

Snape sighed, closed the door, and pointed at a stool near Harry. “Sit.”

Harry nervously sat and watched as Snape cast a few spells over the nearest cauldrons. Several cauldrons continued to bubble and steam, but a few slowed and stopped as they were put into stasis. Snape then pulled a stool over to where Harry was perched and sat opposite him. He jerked up his left sleeve and held up his bare arm.

“What do you see, Potter?”

“Um…” Harry looked up at Snape’s face, wondering if this was a trick question, or if he was about to be put in his place in some humiliating way. “It…it’s your Dark Mark, sir,” he said hesitantly.

“Yes,” Snape said without emotion. “Now say the Dark Lord’s name.”

Harry stared, certain that he’d heard wrong, but Snape didn’t correct himself. “You told me not to—”

“Yes, and you’ve listened so well to my wishes thus far, “Snape said, a slight sneer in his voice. He said again, “Say the Dark Lord’s name.”

“Voldemort,” Harry near-whispered, and he widened his eyes as the Dark Mark visibly darkened and seemed to writhe on Snape’s arm. The muscles on the man’s arm jerked until the Dark Mark faded back to its normal shade and lay still upon his skin.

Snape lowered his sleeve to cover his arm without looking at Harry.

“Did that…hurt?” Harry whispered after the silence became too much.

Snape gave a sharp nod. “It is not unlike a lesser, localized Cruciatus. A reminder to the Dark Lord’s followers to fear not only the man, but the power that even his name holds over us.”

Harry blinked, not sure what to say to that. It all suddenly made sense…every time Snape had flinched at Voldemort’s name, or each time he’d hissed at him to call him something else. He was starting to feel a weight of guilt for having goaded him with Voldemort’s name so many times, but the guilt was overshadowed by the shock of Snape having revealed something so personal to Harry. It wasn’t like him. Snape didn’t share anything personal, especially not a weakness, and especially not with Harry Potter.

“Why did you show me, sir?”

“The headmaster seems to be under the impression that you operate best when given more, not less, information,” Snape said and crossed his arms over his chest. He still wasn’t looking at Harry.

“Professor Dumbledore knows?” Harry gestured at Snape’s arm.

“More or less,” Snape said, and by the way he refused to elaborate and from the times Harry had heard Dumbledore say Voldemort’s name in Snape’s presence, he wondered if this might not be one of the few times when Dumbledore knew less rather than more. Which made it all the more puzzling why he was sharing it with Harry.

“I really am sorry—” Harry said to fill up the empty space, but he was interrupted.

“The headmaster also seems to be under the impression that you take too much blame upon yourself for the decisions of others. He _is_ an old fool when it comes to you,” Snape tacked on, though his sneer seemed forced. “However, in this instance, he may be correct.”

“Sir?” Harry asked with a frown.

“My reaction to your misguided attempt to relieve the stress of your situation, Potter.” Snape spared Harry a quick glance, then looked away. “However reprehensible your behavior, mine was unwarranted. And…” he paused to clear his throat. “It had nothing to do with you.”

Harry stared. Was that an apology? He wasn’t one hundred percent certain, but it sounded as close to an apology as he’d ever heard from the man. He couldn’t stop the thought that Ron was never going to believe it, and he just as quickly shoved the thought away. He couldn’t think about Ron so casually like that, couldn’t wonder if he’d ever get to tell him things. It was too painful.

“I assume you require thanks for your intercessions on my behalf with the headmaster,” Snape said stiffly, arms still crossed, and Harry stared uncomfortably at the rigid way Snape held himself and nearly sighed out loud. Why did Snape always have to make weird situations even weirder by being so _formal_ whenever things got awkward between them?

“No, sir. I, um, I don’t,” he finally answered, when it seemed Snape was waiting for a reply.

Snape gave a sharp nod. “I trust you will respect the confidence I have shared with you tonight.” Standing up, he moved his stool back to his work area.

“Um,” Harry couldn’t think what to say for a minute. “Oh. Of course. I won’t tell anyone, professor. I promise.”

Harry could tell that Snape considered the conversation over, but from Harry’s perspective, it had barely begun. He hadn’t had a chance to bring up how bad he felt about last year and the Pensieve before his half-laid plan was derailed by Snape’s personal revelation. Plus, they didn’t seem to have cleared the air at all. Snape looked as if he thought he’d done his duty by talking to him—in fact, Harry was starting to wonder if Dumbledore had told him he’d had to as a condition of staying—and now he’d probably go right back to ignoring Harry for the rest of summer. Harry didn’t exactly know why that bothered him, but it did. He’d have been overjoyed for Snape to choose to ignore him a mere two weeks ago, but now he felt let down at the prospect.

Snape had walked over to the door and was holding it open, pointedly looking at Harry, and before he could think what else to do, Harry obediently left. The door clicked shut behind him without another word from Snape, and Harry walked through the quiet house back to his bedroom feeling even more unsettled than he had before.

* * *

_He was cold._ It was dark, and he was cold. For several moments, that’s all he knew.

A light turned on, and he blinked, yawning. He opened his eyes and sat up abruptly. A dark shape was coming toward him. He backed up, reaching for his covers…but the covers weren’t there, and neither was his bed. Before he could think about where they were, he was suspended in midair by his ankles. He panicked, trying to reach for the knots at his feet.

A chorus of laughter reached his ears, and he looked up. All around him were figures in black robes and hooded masks. The Death Eaters were chanting something, but he couldn’t make it out. He tried even harder to untie himself, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as he heard the slithering sound of a large snake coming toward him.

“Harry Potter. You’ve joined us at last,” said a familiar snakelike voice, and Harry tried to move faster, but his arms slowed down until they were frozen in midair. Voldemort reached a hand out to touch Harry’s cheek, and he shuddered. His eyes met Voldemort’s red eyes…but they melted away, to be replaced by a purple-faced Uncle Vernon spewing spittle as he yelled an undecipherable string of insults at Harry’s face. Harry was finally able to move his arms just in time to block a vicious swing from Vernon’s meaty fist.

He was suddenly cut down and landed in the middle of an overgrowth of weeds.

“My garden!” yelled Petunia, and he dodged as she came at him with a frying pan. He ran as fast as he could to the park near Privet Drive, but he could hear the Death Eaters behind him, gaining on him. The park was in sight when he tripped, falling through the Veil. Sirius caught him.

Harry smiled in relief, but Sirius pushed him away.

“Sirius, it’s me. It’s Harry!” he yelled frantically, grabbing hold of his godfather. Sirius pushed him away again, harder this time, and Harry fell down at his feet.

“I didn’t want to die, Harry. Why did you make me die?” Sirius asked accusingly.

Harry felt tears spring to his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re not like James at all, are you? Nothing like James.”

“I can try to be!” he tried again to grab hold of Sirius, but he was shoved back through the Veil and landed in a heap in his cupboard.

He lay still for a moment, trying to stem the flow of tears, before he heard someone else breathing in the small space. He scuttled to the corner, trying to remain as still as possible. His hand felt around for the tiny flashlight he’d hidden in here years ago. He found it, turned it on, and…he wasn’t in his cupboard at all. It was a basement.

It was _the_ basement, the one Other Harry had shown him. And there next to him was his unconscious self. But when he turned the body over, he found himself staring into Ron’s lifeless eyes. Harry gasped and grabbed hold of Ron, trying to wake him up, but when he looked down, his hands were covered with blood.

Blood was everywhere, flowing from the walls, flooding the basement, trying to drown him. He reached for Ron to keep him from drowning, but he couldn’t find him. Had he already drowned? He felt around, but the blood was rising too fast. He had to get out. He couldn’t breathe. He was under it now, he was drowning, he was…

Harry gasped awake—for real this time—and tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move. He frantically tore at his sheets from where they were tangled around his sweat-soaked body, and out of habit, he deliberately slowed his breathing and listened carefully to find out if he’d woken anyone up. He could hear the twins’ snores echoing through the small room and gave a small breath of relief. He swiped at his wet cheeks, grateful that at least his nightmare hadn’t had an audience.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be falling back asleep any time soon, he padded in his bare feet to the loo and splashed his face with water. He stared at himself in the mirror, taking in his blotchy face and bloodshot eyes. He could still see the wall of red from his nightmare, and he felt a childish fear of turning out the light. Shaking his head at himself, he turned off the light anyway and made his way out into the hallway of Grimmauld Place. There would be no more sleeping tonight, he knew, not without the aid of a potion. He didn’t want to rely on a potion though, even though he now had plenty on hand, and instead of walking toward the kitchen as he had intended, he again found himself in front of Snape’s closed laboratory door.

His mind was full, and he didn’t know which thread of thought to follow. Occlumency, Ron, the Weasleys, Voldemort, Snape…Snape gearing up to ignore him again, Snape pretending he didn’t exist after they’d been forced to learn so much about each other. He thought again about Hermione’s advice to apologize about last year and let the chips fall where they may. Maybe Snape would even accept the apology and give him some more Occlumency pointers to help him until formal lessons started with Dumbledore in a few weeks.

Not that Occlumency was likely to help him with the garden variety nightmare that was becoming increasingly common. He groaned and rubbed his pounding head.

Unable to decide whether he was up to facing Snape right then, but not wanting to return to his bedroom yet or trek all the way to the kitchen, he lowered himself to the ground opposite the lab. He simply sat for a while, drawing his knees up to his chest and staring at the closed door. It was warmer in this hallway than in his bedroom, and it smelled rather like the Potions classroom at Hogwarts, only without that chill in the air that lingered everywhere in the dungeons. He found it familiar and comforting, in a way. Even though Mrs. Weasley had whipped Grimmauld Place into shape and cleaned every corner to perfection, the rest of the house still carried a musty smell to it that couldn’t ever seem to be wiped away.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind by imagining himself to be at Hogwarts. He pushed against the images from his nightmare, thoughts of Voldemort’s plan, worries about Ron and his friends, and thoughts of Snape and overdue apologies, and tried to simply _be_.

He wasn’t sure if it worked or if he was too exhausted to keep it up, but it didn’t take long for his head to droop forward and his mind to relax into sleep.


	25. The Gift

Something was nudging his arm. Harry swatted at it irritatedly.

“Potter,” came a soft voice from above him. “Wake up.”

Was he sleeping? If so, he didn’t want to wake up just yet. He mumbled incoherently and burrowed his head into his arms. That made his neck hurt though, which drew him further away from sleep. Why did his neck hurt? He groaned.

“I’d ask why you are sleeping in the hallway when you have a perfectly decent bed of your own, but as I’d no doubt be treated to a long-winded adolescent tale of which I have no interest in hearing, I’ll direct you to return to that bed immediately.”

Harry tried to process the too-long sentence in his sleep-hazed mind, but he couldn’t make sense of it. He lifted his head and blearily blinked the world into fuzzy focus. He felt his glasses being nudged into his hand, and he obediently put them on. He blinked a few more times and looked up to see Snape kneeling in front of him.

“What’re you doin’ ‘ere?” he slurred and yawned. He stretched his arms out and then realized where he was. In the hallway outside the potions lab. Last night’s nightmare and early morning wandering came back to him in a rush, and he tried not to show his embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to _fall asleep_ out here, just to sit for a few minutes to think.

He looked up at Snape through his fringe, trying to gauge the man’s mood. Irritated? Angry? Harry still didn’t know if he was forgiven for the other night, plus he didn’t imagine Snape would like him to be around after his Dark Mark confession.

But Snape didn’t look irritated or angry. He just looked a little confused, and something else…resigned, maybe? To what, Harry wasn’t sure. The professor sighed. “Go back to bed, Potter.” He rose to his feet, pulled an old-fashioned key from his pocket, and slid the key into the lock of the door to the laboratory.

“You weren’t in there already?” Harry asked, still trying to make sense of the waking world.

Snape glanced at him without opening the door. “Contrary to popular belief, professors do not _live_ in their classrooms or laboratories. For future reference.”

Harry slowly stood, stretching out a twinge in his back at the movement. Sleeping like that _really_ hadn’t been a good idea. Snape stared, and Harry shifted his feet when the man’s eyes lingered on him. Harry was still barefoot and in his pajamas, and he felt like a little kid under the professor’s gaze.

“Go to bed,” Snape finally repeated in a tired voice and turned back toward the door.

“I wanted to talk to you. Sir,” Harry said quickly, before he could lose his nerve. He didn’t have much to lose by taking Hermione’s advice to talk to Snape about last year. And who knew when he’d get the chance again, with the older wizard obviously getting set to avoid him again.

“Hmm. I suppose one might deduce that from the blatant loitering.” Snape half turned back to look at Harry. “I did tell you that Dobby could summon me if you had any true need, did I not?”

“Yes, sir,” he murmured, thinking that he’d rather the man would just answer the door when he knocked. He wondered if Snape would have talked to him sooner than last night if he’d enlisted Dobby’s help. Probably not.

“Have you had a vision?” Snape asked, eyes narrowed and watchful.

“What? Oh. No. No vision, not since…you know…” he trailed off, not wanting to think about the attack on the Burrow. “No _dreams_ either,” he added, sure that was _always_ going to be the next question.

Snape just watched him again with those dark eyes of his, and it was more effective than any interrogation technique.

“I had a nightmare,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “That’s all it was though. Nothing from _him_ and nothing about the future or anything.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”

“Is the Dreamless Sleep no longer effective?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I…I didn’t take it last night. Didn’t want to take it unless I had to.”

“Not too proud to ask for the potion, just too proud to take it?” Snape turned to face him fully. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door, and Harry couldn’t tell whether the man meant the words, but he didn’t like how they sounded.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Not too proud. But you mentioned it can be addictive, didn’t you? I didn’t want to overdo it.” He was trying to be responsible about using the potion, after all.

Snape scoffed. “You can take it _occasionally_ , Potter. If it weren’t safe, I wouldn’t have given it to you. Just don’t drink the entire bottle at once, and don’t use it every single night, and you’ll be fine.”

Harry ducked his head and fiddled with the hem of his too-large shirt. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d had reasons to want to take it every single night lately. But the professor was too perceptive for his own good and figured it out on his own.

“Ah,” said Snape, and Harry avoided his eyes, not wanting to discuss his increasingly frequent nightmares. Snape cleared his throat. “Well. A few nights in a row should not present a problem. No more than three, to be safe. Take it for the next three evenings, then skip one. Perhaps you’ll find that you don’t need it quite so often once you are better rested.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Harry said quietly and nodded. At the thought of three nightmare-free nights in a row without worrying about any side effects, he let out a small breath of relief. Then he had a thought and chanced a glance at Snape. “Do you use it?”

“What?” Snape was obviously taken off guard.

“Do you ever take Dreamless Sleep potion?” Harry repeated, not sure why it mattered to him. Maybe it was because Snape seemed more human to him now than he had in years past. He may always be a git with a horrible temper and a nasty sarcastic streak, but he had to have his own thoughts and emotions and struggles. Probably nightmares too, after so many years in Voldemort’s service. Harry felt a twinge of sympathy for Snape at the thought. Nightmares, especially ones involving Voldemort, really were the _worst_.

Harry tensed at the sneer he saw forming on Snape’s face, but surprisingly, the man hesitated another moment before wiping the sneer from his face and admitting, “Yes.” But it was clear that he didn’t intend to share more than that. “You wanted to speak with me about something? Something _else_ , I presume?” Snape raised his eyebrows, obviously waiting for Harry to get on with it.

“Um, yeah. So…” he stifled a yawn and searched for something to say. He nearly cringed as soon as he heard the words, “You probably read a lot,” come out of his mouth.

Snape stared at him for a moment. “You wished to speak with me about my reading habits.”

“No,” said Harry quickly. “Well…I mean, it just occurred to me that you’re right, what you said before. I’ve never really thought too much about what my professors do when they’re not in their classrooms. I was just thinking…I bet you like to read a lot. When you’re not making potions, I mean.”

Harry thought he might have made Snape speechless, as the man continued to stare at him, lips slightly parted. He probably should have known better than to keep talking, but he was too nervous to stand in silence. “Do you read fiction? Like, novels and such? Or just magical nonfiction. Or history, maybe? Aunt Petunia likes novels, but she likes the frilly kind. I tried to read one once, but nothing even happened except this crazy flower lady going on and on about wanting to snog some boring bloke. I bet you’d be more the Dickens type.”

“Who?” Snape asked, his brows lowered.

Okay, maybe not.

“What do you _want_ , Potter?” Snape demanded, clearly confused as to why Harry Potter had sought him out in order to ask if he had nightmares and what novels he’d read lately.

“I wanted to speak with you, sir,” he repeated, though he was starting to wonder if he should abandon his plan before he made more of a fool of himself.

“I believe we covered that. Did you have a particular topic in mind, or was it your intent to prattle on about my personal life at some length?”

“I…um, had a particular topic in mind, sir.” Harry felt his cheeks grow hot. He was making a right mess of things, and he hadn’t even started yet.

Snape motioned for him to get on with it.

“Maybe…in your lab? Sir?” Harry glanced sidelong down the hallway. He could hear the telltale sounds of a household beginning to stir. People generally avoided this hallway, but he didn’t fancy being overheard just the same. He must have succeeded in arousing Snape’s curiosity at least, for after a brief hesitation, the man opened the laboratory door and motioned Harry to follow him inside.

Harry closed the door with shaking hands. He put them behind his back so Snape wouldn’t see how nervous he was, but he supposed he was rarely successful at hiding his emotional state from the observant professor.

Snape turned on the lights with a flick of his wand and leaned his back against the counter, arms crossed. His steady gaze settled on Harry, and he waited.

Harry swallowed. Now that he was here, all the words he’d haphazardly rehearsed yesterday fled his mind, and all he could think about was Snape’s inevitable explosion once he dared bring up the events of last year. Ugh. Well, he’d made it this far. Better just dive in.

“Iwantedtopolgize,” he blurted out.

Snape’s forehead creased in confusion. “Pardon?”

Harry took a breath and forced himself to say in as normal a voice as possible, “I wanted to apologize.”

“You already did.” Snape pointed out, adding a frown to his forehead crease. Harry took a deep breath of fortification. Great. He’d barely started, and already the man’s face was crinkled up with lines. As soon as the man added a squint or sneer to the mix, Harry would be done for.

“Yeah—I mean no. I did, but I didn’t mean about the other night.”

“Then what for exactly?” Snape’s face took on a guarded look, which at least smoothed out some of those worrisome frown lines.

Harry cleared his throat. “About last year—”

“Think twice before bringing up the events of last year, Mr. Potter,” Snape cut him off in a low voice, and Harry shuddered at the dangerous undertone. “Some things are better left in the past.”

“I know…” Harry walked closer to him and pleaded with his eyes. “Just…please? Please let me explain, and if you want to get angry and throw me out, I won’t blame you this time, but first just let me get it out. Please?” Snape’s lips were clenched, which Harry took as a very, very bad sign, so he rushed on without thinking of the consequences. “Things have changed between us this summer, professor. They have, and we both know it. Don’t worry, it’s not like I think you…you know, _care_ about me or anything…but maybe now you know I’m not some brat always trying to make your life miserable or get into trouble just to show off. I’m just a kid, Professor Snape. Really. And sometimes kids do stupid things. But…but that doesn’t mean I go around trying to hurt people or that I don’t regret it when I do.”

Snape’s lips were turning white, but he hadn’t cut him off, so Harry charged on. “I’m just asking…please let me explain why I did what I did last year, and apologize because I know it was wrong, and then if you want, you can kick me out and tell me to never knock on your door again, and I promise I won’t. Not here, not at Hogwarts.”

Waiting for Snape to answer was the hardest part of this whole ordeal, but Harry forced himself to be quiet and let Snape take measure of him through narrowed eyes. Finally, Snape said, “Speak. Be concise. You have five minutes.”

“Okay,” Harry breathed and backed up a step. “Okay.” He didn’t know if Snape would literally kick him out after exactly five minutes, but he wasn’t going to chance it by taking his time. “Last year wasn’t a…um, good year. Nobody believed me about Vol— _him_ returning, and Professor Dumbledore and the Order weren’t telling me anything, and I kept having those dreams.” Harry looked at Snape, but the man seemed made of stone, listening but not reacting. Harry could see right away that this was going to be a five-minute monologue.

“I know it sounds like I’m whining,” he said, “but I’m not trying to. I just…wasn’t in a good spot, you know? I was frustrated, and _he_ was always there, in my head, and I was just supposed to go to classes and put up with what the papers were saying about me, and be content not knowing _anything_ even though he might reach out at any moment and grab me or kill my friends or—” Five minutes, he reminded himself. He only had five minutes. “I wanted to know what you all were so keen to hide from me about the Department of Mysteries. _That’s_ why I looked into your Pensieve.”

Snape flinched almost imperceptibly but otherwise made no reaction to Harry’s confession.

“I know it’s not an excuse. I know I shouldn’t have looked no matter what, but I swear I wasn’t trying to pry into your personal memories, professor. Even though we never got on, I wouldn’t have taken a look if I hadn’t thought it was about the Department of Mysteries, about _him_. And…I wouldn’t have stayed, except I saw my dad. He was my age, and I wanted…” he trailed off, gesturing feebly. “I just wanted to see what my parents were really like, for once. Have one memory of them outside of photographs. I don’t even have anything that belonged to them except my dad’s—” he cut himself off, certain that he’d regret it later if he brought up his dad’s invisibility cloak.

He took a breath for courage and got back to the point. “I’m sorry, Professor Snape. I’m so sorry for looking at your memories without your permission. And…I just wanted you to know that I never told anybody what I saw except for asking Remus and Sirius why my dad was so awful to you.”

Harry had known that apologizing was going to be difficult, but he hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be to apologize to a stone wall. Snape’s features were unchanged, and he hadn’t looked at Harry once since he’d started talking. Not knowing how the man was taking his words made Harry ten times more nervous than if he’d been faced with an angry, unforgiving Snape. He wiped his damp hands on his pajama bottoms.

“I’m sorry for what my dad did, too,” Harry said softly. Snape hadn’t thrown him out yet; he may as well go for broke. “I don’t care what rivalry you two had or how young he was, he had no right to treat you that way. Sirius too. I…I don’t like bullies. And I’m sorry my father and godfather bullied you.”

He stopped talking and stood expectantly for a few seconds before saying, “That’s…uh, that’s it. I’m done.”

Snape finally unfolded his arms and stood up straight. His face was still made of stone. “Then get out,” he said without emotion.

Harry’s face fell. “You mean, like… _get out_ , get out?”

Snape didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. He shot Harry a glare that spoke volumes. Harry didn’t have to be told again, and as he left and closed the laboratory door behind him, he saw Snape turn around and grip the table, his back rigid, his head bowed.

* * *

The rest of the house was stirring when Harry left the lab, and as soon as he saw the twins leave their bedroom, he went in and threw himself onto his bed. He skipped breakfast, trying to clear his mind by staring at the ceiling. It didn’t work.

By the time he changed and climbed up to the attic, he didn’t see how he’d have any emotional energy left to clear his mind of emotions. That didn’t even make sense, he supposed, but it was true. Not only had he put his heart into apologizing to _Snape_ , he’d been ousted without a word of acknowledgment. He miserably realized that asking for any more Occlumency help from the professor was most definitely going to be out of the question

When he walked into the small, dusty room, however, he was met with a surprise. Not one, but two girls were seated on the floor before his Occlumency book, poring over a page.

He cleared his throat.

“Oh, Harry!” Ginny turned around, her red ponytail whipping over her shoulder. “We wondered where you’d gone.”

Hermione gave him a slightly apologetic look. “I asked Ginny to help us with the exercises in chapter nineteen. Of course, it would be easier if we could perform magic during holiday…but as that isn’t an option, a helper is the next best thing. I hope you don’t mind. The twins said you weren’t in your room, and I wasn’t sure where you’d gone, or I’d have asked first…”

Harry paused, uncertain, but took in Hermione’s hesitant demeanor and Ginny’s hopeful look, and nodded. “Of course she can help.” Ginny beamed, and Harry felt a little bad for not asking her to help earlier. Maybe it would have taken her mind off Ron to be away from her family’s grief more, and focused on a project. Even if that project was Harry.

“So. What did you come up with?” He sat on the floor across from the girls. He peered at the page but couldn’t make much out upside down.

“Well,” Hermione began, “I was thinking last night about how the mind clearing and mind strengthening exercises are probably too similar to one another. So it follows that if you’re having trouble with one, you’d of course have trouble with the other.” She sounded as if she was berating herself for not realizing it sooner. “Maybe what we need to do is to go in a different direction altogether.”

“A different direction, like what?” Harry asked. He was trying to remember what chapter nineteen had been about. He’d read it, but he’d read too many chapters by now to remember which one was which without looking it up.

“The senses. I thought about what you said, about how Snape figured out your dominant sense, and since you’re more of a tangible person, a sensory learner, I thought we’d go back to that and work on some focus exercises.”

Harry looked away, hoping that his discomfort wasn’t showing on his face. He’d told Hermione about his conversation with Snape, but he’d made it sound like a talk they’d had in the lab or over the dinner table. He’d been too embarrassed to admit that Snape had all but tucked him in to bed. A sixteen-year old boy had to have his pride, after all.

“Okay…so what did you have in mind?” Harry asked, suddenly wary and embarrassed all at once to be discussing with two teenage girls how to use his sense of touch to occlude. He’d already had enough awkwardness for one day.

Hermione slid the book so that it was in front of just her and motioned Harry to scoot himself to sit directly across from Ginny. “Put out your hands, like so,” she directed, demonstrating with her hands out in front of her, palms up.

Harry did so, and Ginny lightly placed her hands over his. He tried not to fidget at the almost-intimacy. Not that Ginny was unattractive, but he didn’t really want to essentially hold hands with her while her brother, his best friend, was comatose downstairs. He almost took back his hands, the thought made him so uncomfortable. Looking at her face though, he changed his mind. She seemed happy to be helping him, and she wasn’t being at all giggly or girlish like some of the girls back at school would have been. She was being…a friend.

He took a settling breath. “Okay, what next?”

“Close your eyes,” directed Hermione, her eyes flitting across the page in front of her. “It’s not a complicated one to start. Just try your best to filter out all of your other senses and focus on your sense of touch. It says here we could use anything, really, to focus your touch on…the floor, a ball, a chair…but human or animal touch works best for beginners. Reminds one to focus on a living, breathing body rather than on the multitude of other things your skin is in contact with, which is quite a lot when you think about it…” She trailed off as she looked up to find both Harry and Ginny staring at her with a mixture of amusement and impatience. “Oh. Right. Sorry, on to the exercise. Close your eyes, Harry, and try to focus your thoughts on your hands alone.”

He closed his eyes obediently and tried to focus his mind on the feel of hands on his. He thought about their warmth, about the fact that he could feel them moving slightly as they balanced atop his own. He could hear all three of them breathing, too. He smelled the mustiness in the air mixed with soap and some kind of fruity shampoo. He worked to block out those thoughts, focusing in only on the hands. Just the hands.

A few minutes later, Hermione told him he could stop. “Did it work?” she asked hopefully.

“I think so.” He grinned at her excited smile. “It wasn’t perfect, but…I think having something tangible to focus on was easier than just trying to clear my mind, full stop.”

“Okay, let’s try again,” she directed with more enthusiasm than before.

Harry tried variations of the simple exercise over and over for the next hour, with Ginny’s help, while Hermione looked up sensory focus exercises to work on next.

“Here’s one,” she said while he and Ginny were taking a break. “The book says to prepare yourself mentally by focusing on a particular emotion. An emotion tied to a memory is best—stronger, so easier to hold on to. Then, when you focus your mind in on the hands, try to focus on both at once—the emotion _and_ the touch. Try to meld the two together.”

Harry stared at her. “Meld the two together? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well…maybe it’s about where you mentally place the emotion?” she thought aloud. “Like, when you’re angry, you probably feel it almost like a tangible weight in your chest, right? But when people lash out, sometimes they push that rage into their extremities. Not like when they simply hit things,” she rushed to explain, “but almost physically, they can feel the anger curling their fingers and their hands shaking with it. Maybe it’s something like that? Try to feel the emotion leaving your heart and residing in your hands, maybe?”

“How am I supposed to feel an emotion in my hands?” he asked incredulously. He held up both hands as if to prove a point. “They’re hands!”

Ginny coughed, and Harry shot her a good-natured glare. He was sure she’d coughed to cover up a laugh.

“Well I don’t know, Harry!” Hermione threw up her own hands. “I’m not an Occlumens, you know. It’s the best I can come up with to explain what I think the book means.”

Harry knew she was doing her best and told her as much in an apologetic tone, but when he tried the exercise, he couldn’t quite understand how to channel emotion into a physical place in his body. And the longer he tried to focus on his sense of touch, the more the fruity scent of shampoo invaded his senses and threw off his concentration.

* * *

After working all day and only breaking for lunch, the three of them were mentally exhausted by mid-afternoon. Even Ginny, who only had to hold her hands in place for Harry or be a sounding board as Hermione sifted through sensory focus theories, looked ready to curl up for an afternoon nap. When Hermione suggested they all pack it away and relax in the drawing room until dinner, even Harry agreed. As focused as he’d been on studying and practicing over the past few days, he wasn’t sure how much more his mind could take without breaking into a million pieces.

He was starting to feel a bit dramatic too, apparently. Focusing on one emotion after another for three hours straight could do that to a person.

“Exploding Snap?” Ginny asked hopefully on their way down the stairs, and for the first time in days, Harry felt as if he’d earned himself a guilt-free break.

And it did feel nice to relax for once, Harry thought as he lay on the sofa an hour later. He’d bowed out of the latest game of Exploding Snap, but Fred, George, and Ginny were still playing. Hermione was curled up in a chair across from him with a book across her lap. He smiled a bittersweet smile at the sight. Nobody was exuberantly happy—sadness still shone through every laugh and every bout of good-natured teasing—but all of them being here together, enjoying each other’s company, was about the best feeling he’d had in days.

A card exploded to a round of laughter from the twins, and Harry closed his eyes with a small smile, blocking out the light with an arm flung across his face.

He barely registered the sound of the door to the drawing room opening, but he opened his eyes when all sounds of exploding cards and laughter stopped.

Snape was standing in the doorway, his imposing presence causing even the twins to stare in awkward silence.

“Potter. A word,” Snape said and then was gone, the door open in a clear order to follow him.

Hermione gave him a look of encouragement as he stood uncertainly, but it didn’t help that all three Weasleys watched him with sympathy as if he were headed to his own execution.

Snape was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs and didn’t look at Harry as he gestured for him to follow. They silently made their way to the potions lab, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if an execution might actually be preferable to the uncertainty of what awaited him after his fiasco of an apology that morning. Snape wasn’t giving him a clue what to expect. He held himself stiffly, but that was how the man usually held himself when he was around people. The only time Harry had seen him let down his guard and truly relax had been when he was so wrapped up in his potions making that he wondered if Snape had forgotten Harry was even in there with him.

Snape motioned for him to enter the lab first, and he jumped slightly when the man closed the door behind them.

He shifted nervously on his feet as Snape walked over to the counter, picked up what looked to be an old envelope, turned it over in his hands a few times, and abruptly put it back down. He turned to face Harry, watching him for a moment in silence.

Harry was so nervous, he thought about asking Snape if he was more of a Shakespeare fan, just to break the silence. He bit down on his tongue. That didn’t seem like something that would go over well under the circumstances.

Snape finally spoke in his most formal tone of voice: “It has become increasingly apparent to me of late that for some years now, I have been operating under a misapprehension.” He paused, looking away briefly before crossing his arms and looking him full in the eyes, as if resolving to do so.

Harry frowned in confusion. That didn’t sound like a response to his apology. He had no idea where Snape was headed with this.

Snape lifted his chin slightly and said, “As you bear James Potter’s name and likeness, not to mention his penchant for mischief, I presupposed that you likewise shared the same character and disposition. My assumptions were based on faulty and incomplete information, not to mention personal bias to that effect, and as such, I shall endeavor to rectify the situation and henceforth form conclusions based on my observations of your words and deeds and not upon my memories of your father’s.” He stopped and held himself even more stiffly, apparently waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.

Harry stared. It took him a full minute to work out what Snape had said. Unless he was mistaken, Snape had just full-out admitted to Harry that he was wrong about him, that he wasn’t a carbon copy of his father. That alone made Harry feel like his feet had been knocked out from under him. It was the last thing he’d _ever_ expected Snape to admit out loud. Even though they’d been getting along marginally better, for the professor to admit that, not only to himself, but to Harry, was _huge_. Like, Voldemort-wanting-to-be-friends-with-Harry sort of huge.

But…was that overly formal speech supposed to be an apology? Like the day before, Harry couldn’t tell, but he kind of thought that it was. And if it was, then Snape was really, really bad at apologies. It sounded like he’d rehearsed it beforehand, too, and Harry would have found the image amusing under less shocking circumstances.

On the other hand…Snape didn’t seem like the sort to make apologies…to anyone…ever. In which case, all things considered, maybe it actually was a very _good_ apology.

Harry cleared his throat. “Uh…” he began ineloquently, then stopped when he realized that was all he could think to say. He had a little bit of sympathy now for Snape’s rude dismissal earlier. He felt like he needed a week, at least, to think over what Snape had said and to come up with an appropriate response.

Snape didn’t show any sign of speaking first though, and Harry knew from experience that the man was far better at waiting out uncomfortable silences than he was.

“I…uh, thank you, sir,” Harry finally said, hoping that was adequate, at least for now.

Snape briskly nodded and, after a brief hesitation, snatched up the old envelope off the counter. He surveyed Harry for a few seconds with an unreadable expression. “I found this. Don’t read anything into it; I just thought you’d want to have it. And don’t ask me where I found it. I don’t remember.” Snape thrust it into his hands, ushered him out of the lab, and clicked the door shut behind him.

Harry stood alone in the hallway for several seconds, stunned by the quick succession of an unusual apology, a mysterious gift, and his hurried dismissal. He realized his jaw was hanging open and he snapped it shut. Now that he was out from under the watchful eyes of the professor, he thought of all sorts of questions he wanted to ask him. Not least of which…did this mean that Snape accepted his own apology?

It seemed that Harry’s confession had prodded Snape in some way to reciprocate. Harry’d had no idea that his words would have such an effect, and he wasn’t sure what to think of it. Of course, he supposed that Snape hadn’t come to his conclusions about Harry overnight. But even if Snape had come to realize he was wrong, and even if he was able to overcome his pride, Harry couldn’t ever have imagined Snape wanting to—how did he put it?— _rectify the situation_. The man never seemed to care what people, least of all students, thought of him. He’d certainly never worried over what _Harry_ thought of him. Or shown any regard for Harry’s feelings. Why then was it suddenly important enough to Snape to formally confess to his past mistakes and…well, essentially promise to do better?

Why would he even _care_ enough to _do_ so?

Harry had felt a lot of confusion over the past several weeks, but he’d never felt as overwhelmingly confused as he did right now.

In an effort to distract himself from his thoughts, he turned the envelope over in his hands. It was folded, wrinkled, and slightly browned with age. It was also lumpy.

He couldn’t contain his curiosity. He opened the envelope and shook a piece of paper and a small heart-shaped stone into his hand. He rolled the stone over between his fingers. There was nothing special about it, apart from its shape. It looked like any other stone one might find on the ground, though it was smooth and well-worn, as if handled many times over the years.

The letter was written in an unfamiliar girlish script, but the first page appeared to be missing; the words started in the middle of a sentence. Scanning to the bottom of the page, he blinked a sudden wetness from his eyes and traced the signature with a shaky finger.

It was signed _Lily_.


	26. Midnight in the Kitchen

_…so much fun. Tomorrow we’re driving out to the carnival. Tuney told Daddy she doesn’t want to go, but I know she’s only pretending. She’s as excited as I am to ride the Ferris wheel. I think it might be better than flying! (Don’t let Carter know I said that. Merlin forbid I tarnish the name of Quidditch.) Tuney’s been absolutely awful this summer. I think she’s still upset that Mum and Daddy wouldn’t get her a wand last year. I told her it wouldn’t work for a Muggle, and now she won’t even speak to me. Honestly. I love her, but sometimes I wouldn’t mind being an only child like you._

_At least I’ll be home soon and we’ll have two whole weeks to go over our assignments! Third year!! Can you believe it? I hope Professor McGonagall meant what she said about teaching us about Animagi this year. I was more excited for Charms and Potions before she said that, but the topic sounds fascinating! (And don’t you give me a hard time. You know you love school as much as I do.)_

_Maybe next time your papa will let you come with us. Since you can’t be here, I’m sending a bit of “here” back to you. It washed right up to my feet this morning. Isn’t it pretty? Now you can pretend you’ve been to the beach too. Maybe we can even charm it to sound like the waves. You’ll love it, I promise. It will be the next best thing to being here in person._

_Got to go. Mum is calling us to dinner. I’ll be home before you can say Hogwarts Express!_

_Your friend,_

_Lily_

“It’s from my mum, see?” said Harry after he’d finished reading the letter aloud. “It’s her handwriting. She actually wrote on this very page, when she was thirteen, I think. Snape gave it to me. _Snape!_ Where do you reckon he found it? He told me not to ask, and after everything, I figure I won’t…not yet, anyway. But I wish I knew who the letter was written to, at least.”

There was no reply, not that Harry had been expecting one.

He reached over to touch Ron’s pale wrist where it lay against the bedsheets, just to reassure himself that his friend’s skin was still warm. He could feel a faint pulse under his fingertips, and Ron’s chest rose and fell so slightly that Harry had to watch carefully just to make sure he really was breathing.

Heaving a sigh, he leaned back into his chair at Ron’s bedside and looked over the letter again. It was such an ordinary letter, but he loved that about it. It was more real that way…a window into a day in his mother’s life. He’d read and re-read it at least a dozen times since that afternoon, imagining his mother as a young schoolgirl writing on the very page he held in his hands. He wondered again who it was written to. Who were her friends? What was she like when she was at Hogwarts?

He knew a few things, of course, but he’d only really met friends of his dad. He knew lots of things about James Potter—about how he’d played Quidditch and become an Animagus and sought out trouble a lot with Sirius. He knew he’d been brave and funny, also a flirt with his mum, and at one time at least, somewhat of a bully.

He hadn’t met _any_ friends of his mother. Nobody had really told him much about her except generalities, like that she was brave and pretty and smart. One would suppose that he would know at least a little more than that after being raised by Lily’s side of the family, but Petunia Dursley refused to speak about her sister except to mention that she had gone off and gotten herself killed and left her brat behind for them to take care of. He didn’t even know if Lily and Petunia had ever been close, like real sisters.

Now he knew that she liked Ferris wheels and school, and he knew what some of her favorite subjects were and that she went on at least one summer vacation to the beach with her family. Also that she had a friend she did homework with during holiday, and that she and her sister didn’t get on, at least sometimes. It wasn’t much, but it was so much more than the nothing that Harry had had before.

“D’you think she wrote a lot to her friends? Maybe I could find out who her friends were and…” he trailed off, imagining how Ron would respond. “No. No, you’re right. That would be weird. What would I even ask them? ‘Hi, I’m Harry Potter. You went to school with my mum. How was she at Herbology?’” he rolled his eyes.

He fell silent again, the only sound in the room that of the ticking clock in the corner. It was starting to annoy Harry, actually. He nearly smothered it with a blanket in case Ron was annoyed by the ticking too…but the thought that Ron might be able to hear enough in his comatose state to be annoyed by it gave Harry hope, so he left it alone.

It was almost midnight. He’d waited until late to visit Ron so he could see him alone, but Mrs. Weasley had been curled up in a chair next to the bed. He had tried to sneak back out, but she’d heard him and told him in a teary voice to “sit down, Harry dear, sit. Ron will enjoy the company,” and left the room.

He studied Ron’s pale face and watched for the rise and fall of his chest again. There it was, slow but steady.

He took the heart-shaped stone back out of the envelope and turned it over and over in his fingers. It was amazing how one little piece of worthless rock could instantly become priceless, after knowing that his mother had once held it. She had hand-picked it because she thought it was special, and she’d gifted it to a friend. And somewhere along the way, it had found its way to Harry. He smiled wistfully. He could almost pretend she’d gifted it directly to him.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Harry said, but silently he thought that it was beautiful. He didn’t know where Snape had come across it or what had prompted him to give it to Harry, but he wasn’t going to make the man regret it by asking questions he’d been warned not to ask. For now, he was just grateful to hold in his hands this small piece of his mother’s life.

He carefully re-folded the letter and put it and the stone back in the envelope. He’d need to find a safe place to keep them when he returned to his room. There weren’t any loose floorboards here, he thought, studying the old walls and dark furniture.

“Ever wonder what secrets this house has that Sirius never told us about?” he wondered aloud. “I know he hated being here, but maybe he just didn’t appreciate the good things about it because of his family. It’s an old wizarding house. It’s got to have secrets. When you’re better, we should look around to see if there are any secret passageways.”

He refused to consider aloud the possibility that Ron might not get better soon…or at all. He’d already considered all of the worst possibilities inside his mind. Voicing them out loud would make them too real, too possible…too inevitable. Plus, Ron might hear. If there was even a remote possibility that Ron was aware somehow, that he could hear anything that happened around him, Harry needed him to know that he had no doubts that they’d figure out how to save him.

Harry turned the envelope over and over in his hands. He studied it again. No name on the envelope, not even a clue.

He heaved a sigh and got to his feet, suddenly too tired to consider any more mysteries. Mysteries be hanged, he just wanted his best friend back and for Voldemort to stop messing with the lives of the people he loved.

If he were of age, he’d seek out Voldemort himself and…and…

And what?

There was a prophecy, sure, but what actual weapons did Harry have against the most powerful evil wizard in the world? Dumbledore seemed to think that love was a pretty potent weapon in his arsenal, but what did that even mean? How could Harry wield _love_ as a weapon? Voldemort, expert Legilimens as he was, might tear apart Harry’s mind before he even figured out how to work the love-as-weapon angle. Harry was learning a ton more _about_ Occlumency since he started studying in earnest, but he was barely making progress with the application of the confusing mental art.

He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and touched a hand to Ron’s wrist again. Skin warm. Heart beating. Chest moving.

“I’ll be back, mate. Sleep well,” he said and turned away. He didn’t look back at his still, pale friend as he left the room.

Mrs. Weasley wasn’t in the hallway, so he made his way to the kitchen. If she was still up, she’d appreciate knowing that she could resume her vigil at her youngest son’s bedside. He certainly wasn’t expecting to open the door to find Snape sitting alone at the kitchen table, books and parchment spread out before him. Harry stopped mid-step as the professor looked up from his work. Didn’t the man _ever_ sleep?

“Sorry,” he said automatically and backed up a step.

Before he could make a graceful exit, Snape stopped him with a raised eyebrow. “A bit late for a snack, isn’t it, Mr. Potter?”

Harry kept hold of the door with one hand, only half in the kitchen. “I was looking for Mrs. Weasley.” He frowned as a thought came to him. “You’re not…um, are you still in charge of me?” Snape narrowed his eyes, and realizing how impertinent that sounded, Harry rushed on to explain, “I only meant, you told me not to leave my room at night…and I wasn’t trying to break rules, not this morning either, I just kind of forgot about that, with everything. You know…since, well…” He figured Snape got the point and shut his mouth against further rambling.

Snape’s eyes took in Harry’s pajamas and worn socks and lingered on the familiar envelope that Harry still held in his hand.

He flushed and moved it behind his back. He wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed that the man should see how much a piece of paper and a rock meant to him, but he was. He was also right tired of facing the man in his pajamas. It made him feel…unprotected. Vulnerable. “Right. Well. I’ll, uh…leave you then—”

“You’ve had a nightmare?” Snape interrupted, his eyes studying Harry.

He shook his head automatically. “Just awake,” he said, and figuring that Snape wouldn’t accept so short an answer, added, “I was with Ron.”

Snape nodded and looked back at the parchment in front of him. Harry took that as his permission to leave and began to back out of the kitchen, but Snape stopped him again, saying almost conversationally, “Arthur Weasley tells me that you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in the attic of late.”

Harry paused, caught off guard. Is this how things were going to be between them now? Casual conversation at midnight in the kitchen? As if it wasn’t strange that they were both there, and Harry in his pajamas? As if it wasn’t insanely weird that earlier that day, they’d both confessed their wrongdoings and each barely received a response from the other?

Apparently it was, as Snape was calmly waiting for Harry to answer.

“I wanted to be alone,” he said simply.

“Ah,” Snape replied. “That must have been the case, considering that half of the teenaged residents of this household joined you up there for the entire day yesterday.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, not sure why Snape was digging around for information, but not wanting to upset their fragile truce by snapping at him about it. “We were studying,” he said honestly. He supposed he could have confessed about the Occlumency. Merlin knows, Snape would be glad to hear Harry was finally taking it seriously. But then he’d have to confess his continuing ineptitude.

“Studying. In the attic.” Snape’s raised eyebrows showed what he thought of the likelihood of that excuse.

“Yes, in the attic,” Harry insisted. “I was trying to concentrate, away from people at first. But then Hermione offered to help me, and then Ginny too.”

“You needed two tutors, did you?” Snape scoffed, not giving up. “I’ve seen your OWL results. While not the best indicator of your abilities, they’re not _that_ bad.”

“We _were_ studying!” He said, his temper starting to get the better of him. “Not that it’s any of your business!” He huffed and added a quick, “sir.” So much for trying to be polite. Maybe they’d come to some sort of understanding about the past, but Snape was still Snape and Harry was still Harry. He wasn’t sure they’d _ever_ be able to overcome the very real hurdle of their personalities—even for the sake of the future.

Snape’s eyes flashed at Harry’s outburst, but he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He slowly nodded at the chair opposite him and said, “Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Potter? You see, as the adult left in charge of your care—a charge that Professor Dumbledore did not, in fact, revoke after the Weasleys took up residence—it appears that you require a familiarization as to what is or isn’t ‘my business.’”

Harry hesitated only long enough to see no way out of it before plodding reluctantly to the indicated chair. He put his envelope carefully on the chair next to his and waited for the inevitable vocabulary-fueled lecture to begin.

“Potter—”

“I was studying Occlumency,” He blurted out.

Snape looked at him, taken aback, which Harry supposed was his goal. Snape was bound to get the information he wanted eventually, and until then Harry would be unpleasantly subjected to lecturing and questions. Might as well skip the lecture and get straight to the inevitable. Hopefully Harry could downplay the humiliating fact of his lack of progress.

“You were right,” he went on. “I wasn’t focusing before. I thought it was boring and hard and I didn’t want to put in the effort. But…I _have_ to now. Even if it _is_ boring and hard. So I’ve been reading the book and practicing some of the exercises, and Hermione and then Ginny offered to help when they saw what I was up to. That’s all, professor, I swear.”

For once, Snape didn’t appear to know what to say. After a long moment of silence, he said quietly, “You’ve been holed up in the attic for four days...”

Harry nodded.

“All so that you could read the Occlumency book that just last week was the bane of your existence?” His face showed his skepticism.

Harry nodded again and looked down, tracing the wood grain of the table with his finger. He felt properly ashamed at not having put in the proper amount of effort before.

“And what have you learned?”

Harry glanced up. “I…uh, I learned that there are a lot of ways to clear your mind…and that most of them require focus rather than just…nothingness in the brain.”

“Nothingness in the brain?” Snape asked incredulously. “This has been your understanding of Occlumency thus far?”

Harry sank a little in his seat. “Yeah, well…we’ve already established that I’m pants at it, alright?”

Snape impatiently waved a hand. “What else?”

“I learned about how closely the mental arts are related, and that it’s impossible to become a master of Occlumency without figuring out how to control emotions…pushing them away, using them for misdirection, all sorts of things.” He didn’t add that controlling his emotions had never been his strong suit. But then, Snape already knew that.

“Go on,” said Snape. He steepled his fingers in front of his chin.

“Uh…” Harry wasn’t sure if it was such a bright idea, but now that he had an Occlumens in front of him, he was tempted to get some of his questions answered. Even if it was Snape. He cocked his head, studying Snape for a couple of seconds. The man didn’t comment on it other than to raise a questioning eyebrow. Maybe…maybe _because_ it was Snape. He somehow knew, in a way that he hadn’t in weeks past, that if he asked his questions, Snape would answer them.

“There was something that I…I mean, maybe you wouldn’t mind answering a question for me, professor?”

Snape studied him from across the table and slowly nodded.

“It’s about redirecting emotion,” he began. “See…the book talked about redirecting emotion to a physical place, and I just…I don’t understand how,” he said with a question in his voice. “I mean, emotion is emotion. It doesn’t have a physical presence. How can I treat it like I can touch it or move it?” he held up his hands in a frustrated gesture and waited.

Snape cocked his own head to the side. “You tried the exercises as prescribed by the book, I presume?”

“Yes,” Harry sighed, “but the explanation didn’t make much sense to me. Or maybe it sounds like it should make sense, but I can’t figure out how to make it work inside my own mind. If that makes sense,” he added and inwardly winced. He sounded like a right idiot.

Snape lay his hands on the table and absently tapped a finger on its surface. “Books are instructive and illuminating on many topics, but they cannot do justice to all endeavors. There is a reason nearly all students of Occlumency seek instruction from a flesh and blood teacher rather than from the inanimate pages of a book. Some things are better shown than explained.”

Harry nodded as he looked away. They were getting dangerously close to the topic of last year’s failed lessons, and Harry wasn’t completely sure where they stood on that, even after his apology. It was a little bit stressful, this not knowing if he was in the clear or if he was skating on thin ice. “I suppose it’s something Professor Dumbledore can help me with when school starts back up.”

“Or—” Snape began but cut himself off. He drew his hands up from the table and crossed them over his chest. He was silent for so long that Harry looked up at him questioningly. Snape studied him with his carefully blank expression before he cleared his throat and looked away. “Or…I suppose I could show you.”

Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He widened his eyes and looked up to find Snape watching him. He decided that he must have heard right because Snape looked really, really uncomfortable. He looked, in fact, as though he might take back the offer at any moment, so Harry made a snap decision and nodded. “I’d appreciate that, sir.”

Harry wasn’t surprised when Snape gave a brisk nod, then picked up a quill and turned to his books with a “Tomorrow, then. I’ll expect you in my laboratory straight after breakfast, no matter how late you’ve decided to roam the house tonight.” The jab lacked bite, and Harry sneaked a last glance at the professor as he picked up his mother’s envelope and pushed in his chair. Snape was scribbling on a sheet of parchment, a black curtain of hair obscuring his face.

As Harry made his way to the door, it struck him that Snape was probably feeling just as awkward and uncertain about their new tentative truce as he was. It shouldn’t have helped to see that, but it did.

For once, Snape was just…a person. Well. An intelligent, awkward, antisocial, sarcastic, and guarded person. With anger management issues.

Alright, so he wasn’t an altogether admirable person.

Yet somehow, Harry wasn’t wholly dreading this Occlumency lesson. He actually thought that maybe this time, with Snape willing to teach and Harry willing to learn, he might catch on rather well. He smiled hopefully to himself as he headed off to bed.

* * *

When Harry told Hermione on their way downstairs that he’d be working on Occlumency with Snape straight after breakfast, to say that she was glad for him was an understatement.

“Oh, Harry! That’s excellent news! You finally asked him? Is he going to help you to clear your mind again? Or teach you the finer points of Occlumency? Oh, what does it matter? You’ll have an Occlumency master to guide you through the process, no matter where he starts. You will tell me how he teaches you, won’t you? I’m so curious, after reading all about the theory.”

“He’s just helping me with a question, really,” Harry pointed out, though he grinned at her enthusiasm. “He offered to show me one technique, not to start up regular lessons again.”

Hermione stopped on the stairs and Harry turned back around after realizing she wasn’t next to him anymore.

“He offered?” she asked, still excited, eyebrows raised. “That’s huge, Harry! Dumbledore had to force him to help before, didn’t he? But this time he’s offered? Maybe things _will_ be different this time.”

Harry gave her a skeptical look before continuing on to the kitchen to join the Weasleys and greet Remus, who had dropped in for breakfast again, but inwardly he had the same hope. Maybe things would be different this time. Of course, last year had set the bar pretty low. It wouldn’t take a miracle for their lesson to at least be better than _that_.

But of course his plan to start off on the right foot was derailed immediately after breakfast. As soon as he pushed his chair from the table, Remus stopped him with a quiet, “Harry, might we speak for a few minutes? In the drawing room, perhaps?”

“Um,” Harry looked at the clock. “Snape wanted to see me straight after breakfast.”

“It will only take a few minutes.” Remus looked hopeful, and Harry stifled the urge to brush him off. He didn’t want to keep Snape waiting, knowing how much of a stickler he was about punctuality. Not to mention that he still wasn’t quite comfortable with the concerned, quasi-parental persona that Remus had tried to adopt lately. But his manners kicked in and he found himself trailing behind Remus to the drawing room and sitting across from him on the small sofa.

Remus leaned forward, his elbows resting on the patched knees of his trousers. He watched Harry for a moment, a soft smile on his face, like he was searching for something. Harry didn’t know what and felt a sudden wave of stubbornness roll over him. He crossed his arms and waited. Remus was the one who’d wanted to talk, so he could very well go first.

“How are things, Harry?” Remus asked as though reading his mind. The thought made Harry’s mind run in an entirely different direction.

“Have you ever studied Occlumency or Legilimency?” he blurted out. He narrowed his eyes at the thought. He’d become more aware of the need to hide some of his more embarrassing thoughts with Snape and Dumbledore after learning that they were Legilimens, but he’d never given any thought to the possibility that other teachers possessed the skill. His eyes widened then, as he considered the implications of that. McGonagall would have way too much dirt on him by now.

Remus seemed puzzled by the question. “No. I haven’t.” He cocked his head to the side. “Are you in need of help? I thought that you and Professor Snape ended your lessons last term.”

Harry shrugged, relaxing into the chair a bit. “We did. I mean, technically. But no,” he answered Remus’s question. “I wasn’t asking for help. I was just…curious.”

“You? Curious?” Remus teased, a warm smile lighting up his features.

Harry couldn’t help a small smile. Remus, of all people, knew what trouble he could get up to due to his curious nature. He thought it was maybe time to get back on track.

“I’m…uh, doing well though. You know, all things considered. I don’t suppose you know anything more about a cure for Ron?”

Lupin’s smile faded a bit and he shook his head. “But I’m certain he will be fine. Just wait and see.”

“You can’t know that,” Harry bit out. He felt a familiar rise of frustration well up inside him, and for once, he decided to let a bit of it seep out. Better with Remus than with Mrs. Weasley. “That’s all any of the adults in this house will tell me. Well, everyone except Snape, anyway. ‘It’ll be okay. He’ll be fine. It’s just a matter of time.’ You can’t _know_ that, Remus.” At least he managed to keep himself from shouting. He couldn’t forget how lousy he’d felt after the last time he’d taken all of his frustrations out on Remus. He took a deep, calming breath.

Remus reached out a hand toward Harry, and he moved out of its way.

“Sorry,” he immediately said at seeing the hurt expression on Remus’s face. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, Harry,” Remus let out a deep breath. “I am the one who is sorry.”

Harry frowned, confused.

“I don’t know how to do this, you know,” Remus said abruptly, sagging into the chair. “I want to be there for you, be someone you can rely on, but I keep getting it wrong, don’t I?” He looked up through defeated eyes, and Harry was taken aback. He hadn’t been entirely pleased with Remus lately, but he hadn’t expected the man to drop all pretense and apologize for anything. Harry felt that he ought to reassure him, tell him it was all right, but he couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t even sure how he felt about Remus these days. Oh, he loved him, of course. He just…felt a bit jumbled about whether…well, about whether Remus loved him.

But he couldn’t _say_ that. He was _sixteen_. He didn’t need to sound all pathetic asking the adults in his life if the boy his family hadn’t loved was worthy of being loved by anyone else. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and tried to push those thoughts out of his mind.

“Sirius was reckless, always rushing into things since our boyhood days,” Remus was saying. “I thought he was reckless with you as well, but he at least knew how to reach you, didn’t he? He knew what you needed, and he knew how to be an ear you could confide in. And I’m—I’m sorry that I haven’t been that for you, Harry.”

“Remus…” Harry said awkwardly at Remus’s defeated tone. He cleared his throat again, trying to think of what to say. The man’s words were true, after all. He _hadn’t_ been there for Harry like Sirius had been, and Harry resented him for it. But at the same time, Harry hadn’t truly wanted the man to feel bad about it. “You…um, you know you don’t have to be like Sirius was to me, right?” Remus looked as if he might argue, so Harry rushed on, “You were my dad’s friend, I get that, and you were a great teacher. Thanks for giving me so much extra help, by the way,” he added. “But I already had parents. And a godfather. They’re gone, and I’ll always miss them, but you don’t have to… _be them_.”

Remus smiled sadly at him for a minute before responding. “I suppose it is a bit egotistical of me to assume that I could fill such magnificent shoes, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged, smiling a little as he reflected, “Sirius wasn’t exactly a dream mentor type, you know. He encouraged me to embrace my own reckless side more than I think a godfather is supposed to.”

Remus’s lips turned up at that. “I can imagine.”

“He blamed me for not being enough like my dad, too,” Harry said quietly.

“Oh Harry,” Remus said, and this time when he reached out, Harry let him rest a hand on his knee. “You have much of your father in you. You have his bravery and determination, his loyalty to his friends…not to mention his stubbornness and penchant for smart mouthing his teachers.”

Harry huffed a laugh.

“But I see much of your mother in you as well,” Remus added softly. “You have her intelligence, her kind-hearted compassion for others, her great capacity for forgiveness…” He squeezed Harry’s knee and let go. “Yet you are your own person. You can be proud of what your parents gave you, but you have no obligation to be anyone but yourself. Never lose sight of that.”

Harry ducked his head to blink away the wet sheen over his eyes. Those words somehow meant the world to him, and he felt a heaviness lift from his heart. He knew that Remus would never be like James or Sirius to him, but he also knew from the way Remus had looked at him just then that he genuinely cared about Harry. For Harry’s sake.

He felt a sudden urge to hug the man, but instead, he grinned and said, “You know…you might not be as awful at this as you think.”

Remus laughed.

“But really, Remus,” Harry said, “I mean it. You’re a good teacher. You’ve been a good friend. I know I could come to you for advice or help if I need to, and I really appreciate that. But you don’t have to try to stand in for my parents or Sirius or anybody else. Just be you. It’s enough, I swear.”

“Even if _being me_ means that I still don’t share Order business with you?” Remus gave him a lighthearted but pointed look.

Harry shrugged. “Just don’t lie to me. I’ve had enough of lies and watered-down truths to last a lifetime.”

“Deal.” Remus’s eyes were smiling but his mouth was serious as he held out his hand for Harry to shake.

Harry took it and smiled. “Deal.”

Remus returned his smile as he relaxed back into his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “So you’re getting on better with Professor Snape, then?”

Snape! Harry looked at the wall clock and shot to his feet. “I really do have to go, Remus,” he said but paused his steps. “Why? He didn’t say something, did he?” Harry clamped his mouth shut on a sudden urge to deny anything the Potions professor might have said about him and his behavior over the last several weeks. He still wouldn’t put it past him.

“Well, no. Professor Snape is still about as eager to converse with me as he was when we were at Hogwarts.” Remus smiled calmly as if it didn’t bother him in the slightest. He stood and brushed the wrinkles out of his trousers. “I only wondered what you are meeting him about this morning. Is he helping you with that Potions homework you still need to complete?”

Harry took a deep breath and looked at the clock again before reluctantly admitting, “No. I’m, um, not actually taking Potions next year.”

“No?” Remus asked, eyebrows raised. “Have you decided not to try for the Auror program after all?”

“It’s not that,” Harry hedged, then admitted, “I didn’t get a high enough grade to go on next year.”

“Oh,” Remus said simply, and Harry tried not to show his embarrassment as they walked to the door in silence. As Remus opened the door, he put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, “I may only be _me_ now, but I would be happy to speak with him on your behalf, if you wanted me to.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, not sure whether to laugh or be horrified at the idea.

Remus shrugged. “It _is_ up to each professor to determine which students to admit into their classes. They set the rules, but they have the authority to grant exceptions to those rules if they wish.”

“And you honestly think _Professor Snape_ has ever once granted an exception for a _Gryffindor_?”

Remus smirked. “Well. There is a first time for everything.”

Harry harrumphed, amused despite himself, but he shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. It’d probably hurt more than it would help, to be honest. I bet he’d say no even if Dumbledore asked. And anyway, I think he’s just now starting to get it through his thick skull that I don’t expect favors because I’m Harry Potter. I don’t want to give him some kind of proof that it’s actually true.”

Remus smiled and squeezed his shoulder before letting go. “I understand. The offer stands if you change your mind.”

Harry gave him a small, genuine smile even though he knew he’d never take him up on it. “Thanks, Remus. I mean it,” he called over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs two at a time to Snape’s lab. He crossed his fingers that the professor wouldn’t grill him about the exact time that breakfast had ended and why he hadn’t come straight up. Hopefully the man was in a good mood today, and hopefully whatever he had in mind for their lesson wouldn’t be too grueling.

 _And_ hopefully it would work and Harry would figure out Occlumency after all!

Harry knocked at Snape’s door, bouncing on the balls of his feet until he heard Snape’s voice say, “Enter.” He pushed the door open, unable to suppress the tiny feeling of hope spreading through his chest.


	27. Occlumency, Part 1

Harry watched Snape carefully as he entered the potions lab, uncertain whether to expect a lecture. The last thing he needed was for the professor to be annoyed at him for being late and call off the whole thing. However, Snape either didn’t notice that he hadn’t come straight up after breakfast, or he’d decided not to make an issue of it. As soon as Harry closed the door behind him, the professor motioned for him to take a seat on his usual stool and placed a potions vial on the counter in front of him.

“This,” Snape said without preamble, “is a mental acuity potion often used in the beginning stages of Occlumency instruction.”

Harry eyed the vial with curiosity. The potion it held was dark blue in color, yet it seemed almost clear when the light hit it just so. It was mesmerizing. “You didn’t mention any potion last year.” He immediately clamped his lips shut, still uncertain about the wisdom of bringing up last year, but thankfully, the professor didn’t seem to mind.

“No,” Snape explained, taking a seat opposite Harry. “I wouldn’t have. This potion should only be used between a teacher and student who can dredge up a degree of trust between them.”

“Trust?” Harry smoothed down his fringe. _Trust_ was a big thing for such a little word, and for all the thought he’d given to regret and forgiveness over the past several days, he’d yet to make up his mind on the issue of trust. He still _wanted_ to trust Snape, still wasn’t sure that he could.

“A _degree_ of trust,” Snape repeated, watching Harry carefully. “I do not pretend that either one of us is prepared to have absolute faith in the other, but I do believe that we may be able to drum up just enough for this potion to work.”

“What does it do?” Harry wasn’t going to agree with that statement until he knew _why_ they’d need to trust each other.

“This potion facilitates the melding of two minds.”

Harry felt his eyes widen, his mind caught somewhere in between horror and terror. Meld minds with Snape? He didn’t quite know what that meant, but it did _not_ sound like something he wanted to do.

“Calm yourself, Potter.” Snape quirked his lips, and Harry realized that the man was _amused_. He made a mental note to be properly annoyed just as soon as he got over his horror. “Occlumency instructors have used this method for generations. It allows teacher and student a direct pathway into each other’s mind for the purpose of learning a particular skill. It is not unlike Legilimency, only it allows for a smoother, more sustained merge and a more advantageous vantage point.”

“V—vantage point?” Harry managed to ask. Were his lips going numb? He thought that maybe his lips were going numb.

“If we both take this potion, I will grant you access to my mind so that I may show you how I accomplish the feat you are finding difficult. You will experience it as I do, not as an external party looking in. I will also be able to see into your mind, from your perspective, what is behind your failed efforts.”

“ _If_ we take it?” He latched onto that important word, wondering if it was too late to back out of this lesson and go study with Hermione instead.

There was that glint in Snape’s eyes again that made him look entirely too much like he was enjoying Harry’s discomfort. “I offer it to you as an option—in my opinion, the most effective method to teach this skill. Alternatively, I can attempt to guide you through the exercise by describing what to do.”

“You mean…” Harry thought he could maybe feel his lips again. “You’re giving me a choice? You’re not going to make me take that?”

Snape shook his head. “I hardly think that forcing a potion down your throat will help you to learn Occlumency. Besides, the potion will not achieve its intended means unless both parties do so willingly.”

“You’re _really_ giving me a choice?” Harry had to make sure.

“Yes.”

“What’s _your_ choice?” Surely the Snape he knew wouldn’t want _Harry Potter_ anywhere near his mind.

“I’ve already made my choice by offering the choice to you. We will work at your comfort level.”

“And you’re really willing to let me into your mind?” Harry asked skeptically.

“Yes,” Snape said without hesitation, and Harry knew how big a deal that was. Snape really _was_ offering him trust. He was so shocked that he almost swallowed his fear and offered trust in return. Well, maybe not. But the thought entered his mind for a split second.

Instead, he asked, “How many times have you used this potion before?”

Snape hesitated before stiffly admitting, “I have never used it.”

Harry was too surprised to say anything for several seconds, and when he did, all he could make out was a jumbled, “Wha—? But why…I mean, how do you know it’ll work? And why haven’t you used it, if it’s supposed to be such a good way to teach Occlumency?”

Snape flicked a lank lock of hair out of his face and crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you that my mother taught me Occlumency as a child. She used other methods, as a potion such as this would not be advisable for children much younger than yourself. I had no other formal tutor in the art.”

“Then how have you taught it before? Just by mental attacks?” At Snape’s lack of immediate response, Harry put two and two together. “Oh. I’m the only one you’ve ever taught. Aren’t I?”

“Occlumency is not an art usually sought after by Hogwarts students,” Snape said—in a rather snooty tone, in Harry’s opinion. “On the rare occasion an upper level student might express interest in the art, their Head of House would typically arrange for an apprenticeship of sorts, to begin after graduation. I have never sought to take on such an arrangement, as I am not in the least suited to it.”

Harry cocked his head to the side. “So…there were other people the headmaster could have asked to teach me? But he made me work with _you…_ because of the other prophecy?” It was the first time he’d mentioned Snape’s prophecy aloud since Dumbledore had shared its contents, and he watched the professor warily in case he’d overstepped.

But other than an eye twitch, Snape made no acknowledgment of it. “The headmaster could not entrust your mind or the secrecy of your lessons to anyone he did not explicitly trust to not betray you to the Dark Lord. Whatever additional motivations he had, and however displeased you and I were over the arrangement, that reason alone was not to be refused.”

Harry nodded, feeling that they’d strayed from the point. “So how do you know how to use the potion if you’ve never used it before?”

“Credit me with some intelligence,” Snape spat. Harry had obviously insulted him by implying more than once that he might not know what he was doing. “I have done my research, and I have discussed its use at length with a colleague whose experience with using this particular potion is quite extensive. I have brewed it myself, so I have no doubt that it will have the intended effect. Do you wish to attempt it or not?” Snape’s eyes were flashing with undisguised irritation, but Harry was more interested in the fact that this time, Snape had apparently put a decent amount of time and effort into figuring out the best way to teach Harry. He didn’t know quite how to feel about that, but he hadn’t expected it. At all. And it was that, more than anything, that made him agree. After a few swallows past the fear still present in his throat, anyway.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath that was only a little bit shaky. “Okay, let’s do it.”

The irritation fell from Snape’s eyes, and he asked, “You are certain?” with such obvious surprise that Harry wondered if despite Snape’s careful research and preparation, he’d still been almost completely positive that Harry would say no.

“Well…define _certain_ ,” Harry admitted. “I’m freaking out a bit, to be honest. So we should probably go ahead and take that potion before I change my mind.”

Snape wordlessly held out the potion to Harry and pulled an identical vial from his pocket. He drank the entire contents of his own vial and gestured for Harry to do the same.

With a fortifying breath, Harry tipped it back and gulped down the liquid. He immediately pulled a face. “Ugh. What is _in_ that? It looks nice, but it tastes like rubber and feels like slime.”

Snape smirked. “Runespoor eyes, for one.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, okay. I don’t need to know what else.”

“Wise choice.” Snape vacated his stool and sat cross-legged on the floor. Harry stared. The sight of his rigid professor doing something as casual as sitting on the floor was…well, it was weird. “If you are still sitting on that stool when the potion takes effect, you certainly won’t be for long,” Snape said with a pointed look.

Taking the hint, he settled himself on the ground opposite the professor, mimicking his pose.

“The potion will begin to take effect shortly,” Snape explained. “You may feel disoriented until you become accustomed to it. The disorientation should pass within a matter of minutes, at which point your mind will be open to the melding.”

Harry gave a jerky nod. Disorientation was fine. It was the _mind melding_ bit that he was starting to panic about. _Why_ had he agreed to this so quickly? He had half a mind to ask Snape how valuable the potion was and how difficult it had been to brew so he could decide how much trouble he’d cause if he backed out now. He didn’t realize he had clenched his jaw or notice how tightly he was grasping the material of his jeans in his hands until Snape poked his knuckles with a finger. Harry jumped.

“Relax. Breathe.” Snape took a few exaggerated, slow breaths, and Harry tried to match them. “The potion will work best if your mind is in a state of calm.”

Calm? Ha. Right. Harry deliberately unfurled his fingers and tried to loosen his tense shoulders, but he was far from calm. He sneaked a peak at Snape, making sure he didn’t still look annoyed—he didn’t—before tentatively asking, “What if I can’t make my mind calm enough? Will it work right?” _Will it hurt?_ he wanted to add but couldn’t without sounding like a scared little kid. He tried not to think about that question because his shoulders were tensing up again.

“Its efficacy may be dampened, but only insofar that your mind will be unyielding to mine. In order for me to ascertain what is giving you difficulty, I must be allowed access into your mind so that I am able to understand how you are attempting the exercise.”

Harry nodded, still worried but trying not to show it. He took a few more deep breaths, when a sudden wave of dizziness overtook him. He shot out a hand to catch himself from tipping over sideways. Pressing his hand into the coolness of the floor, he leaned heavily on it while the dizziness passed and a lesser wave took its place. The world swam out of focus, and he rubbed his eyes with his other hand, managing only to knock his glasses askew. In the next second, he felt a pair of hands pluck his glasses from his face.

“You won’t need them,” Snape explained. Harry blearily watched him fold them and place them to the side, well out of reach. “Our eyes will remain closed for the exercise itself.”

Harry wanted to protest. With the world even more out of focus than usual, he felt defenseless. He didn’t like that feeling, and he had to stop himself from trying to cross his arms over his chest for some sense of protection. But he clamped his lips shut against the protest and left his arm where it was, as much due to another wave of dizziness as due to his pride. They sat in silence for over a minute while Harry, eyes closed, battled the dizziness. It was slowly being replaced by a fuzzy feeling. It was a strange sensation, not a kind of fuzziness that dulled the brain or the senses, but that somehow sharpened them. He flexed his hand against the floor and felt its texture as if it were a part of his skin. He breathed in, and the strong scent of dirt and spice tickled his nostrils and teased his tongue. He wrinkled his nose and sneezed from the unexpected intensity of various aromas. He slowly opened his eyes, half afraid to know how his eyes would react to the world around him. As his eyes returned to normal, however, they were just…normal. Snape was blurry but no more or less than usual without the use of his glasses.

“Why—” he cut himself off, his voice sounding strange in his own head, amplified, but only slightly. He tried his best to ignore it. “Why don’t I see different?” He hoped Snape would understand the question because he couldn’t explain. His mind was too busy getting used to all of the strange sensations.

“One side effect of the potion is to amplify the senses,” Snape said in a calming voice. “If one sense is already sharper than another, it will be all the more amplified. Sharpening our awareness, which often comes through the senses, aids in the demonstration of Occlumency techniques. You won’t notice it so much while we are engaged in the mental exercise itself.”

“Oh,” Harry acknowledged but was unable to keep some lingering confusion from his face.

“Your other senses are used to overcompensating for your weakened vision,” Snape explained. “As such, they are more receptive to the potion’s effects. That your sense of sight is unchanged is hardly surprising.”

His eyes lit up at a thought. “Are there potions that improve less receptive senses? It wouldn’t be totally horrible to not have to wear glasses anymore.”

Snape snorted. “There are, but unless you do, in fact, want to become a potions addict, they are highly inadvisable.”

Hmm. So much for that momentary hope. Oh well. He wasn’t too disappointed, he decided. He was used to his glasses by now, even if he was certain they were a couple prescriptions too old. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get used to seeing his image in the mirror without them.

“Has the disorientation gone?” Snape’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“I think so.” Harry blinked up at the professor, wishing he could see his face better. He was better at reading Snape these days, but he wasn’t used to doing so by the inflection of his voice alone.

Snape scooted closer so that he was sitting directly in front of Harry, their knees almost touching. “We can do this in one of two ways.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed. He stifled it almost immediately. “Sorry. Two ways, got it.” He could see Snape better now that he was closer, and he couldn’t miss his signature raised eyebrow. When Harry realized he wasn’t going to get out of it without explanation, he said, “I…uh, just didn’t expect to be given so many options today. That’s all. I expected more of a ‘my way or the highway’ approach. I…sorry.,” he repeated and schooled his features. “You were saying?”

Thankfully, Snape let it go without further comment. “The more physical contact we share, the better this will work. However, as that is likely to result in discomfort and therefore a less receptive mind, we must find a satisfactory middle ground.”

Harry licked his dry lips. Middle ground. Yes, much better than having to give Snape a hug or something. Ugh. No way was he getting that close to that greasy head, no matter the progress they’d made. He tried so hard not to let that thought show on his face that he had to force himself to pay attention to what Snape was saying. He got the gist though. Clasped wrists would allow for the minimal contact needed for the melding of minds, but placing their hands at each other’s temples would achieve more desirable results.

“Wrists,” Harry said quickly. Allowing Snape to touch his face, and doing so in return, was so far outside his comfort zone that he’d never be able to focus his mind. From Snape’s immediate nod, he was fairly certain the man both expected the answer and felt the same way.

He couldn’t help a flinch when Snape reached for both of his arms and placed them face up on his folded knees. Snape didn’t comment, just placed his wrists over Harry’s and lightly but firmly grasped his lower arms. It was the oddest sensation by far, due to his heightened senses. He didn’t just feel the man’s skin and pulse; it felt almost as if Snape’s pulse were his own. Their closeness was messing with his senses in other ways too. Their voices weren’t quite so amplified anymore, but the scents in the room—potions ingredients, fabric, soap, human skin and sweat, and some sort of dirt or mustiness that had to come from the walls themselves—were combining with such intensity that he was sure he’d have a headache by the time they were done. He’d never even realized that something like fabric could have such a distinctive scent all its own.

“Close your eyes,” Snape directed.

Harry now had another reason to not want to be touched, as his own racing pulse had to be obvious to the man. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this nervous. Of course, it wasn’t every day he allowed someone to enter his mind, and this was _Snape_. As he thought that, he felt something nudging at the corner of his consciousness, and it startled him so much that he tried to pull his arms away. Snape kept a firm hold, but it wasn’t so tight that he couldn’t get away if he tried harder, and repeated, “Relax. Breathe.” Harry stilled. He hesitantly closed his fingers around Snape’s arms and tried to breathe slowly and deeply.

It was difficult to keep his breathing steady when he felt what had to be Snape’s mind brushing against his own again. He did his best to relax, and the presence gradually became stronger until his mind suddenly felt…the only way he could describe it was full. But that wasn’t quite right. More like…

“Fused?” Snape asked aloud.

“You can read my thoughts?” Harry squeaked, trying to tamp down the sense of panic.

“Only your most conscious thoughts and feelings. What you are most actively thinking at this moment. And I apparently need to tell you to breathe again.”

Harry did just that. He focused all his energy on breathing and on thinking about breathing. The last thing he needed to do was think about something that he didn’t want Snape to know, like— _No! Breathe. Think about breathing._

“Allow yourself a minute or two to become accustomed to the mind melding sensation. When you feel ready, attempt the exercise just as you tried it yesterday. Try not to alter it so that I may see which part is giving you difficulty.”

Harry kept focusing his energies and his thoughts on breathing. Only when he thought he couldn’t put it off anymore, he said, “Um…okay, so it said to start with a memory to pull up an emotion and—”

“Try to do it without verbal explanation,” Snape interrupted. “Focus your energies on the exercise itself. I will know what you are attempting to do.”

Harry took a deep breath and nodded even though he knew Snape couldn’t see him. But right away he hit a snag. He hadn’t thought to prepare a specific memory to use. Yesterday he hadn’t had to worry about Hermione and Ginny seeing his memories. Even now, trying hard _not_ to think of the ones he’d used the day before, he knew he didn’t want Snape to view any of them.

“Memories tied to strong emotion are preferable,” Snape spoke out loud. “Negative or childhood emotions tend to work best for beginners, as they are very often heightened in their intensity. Might I suggest an early memory, perhaps one that I’ve already seen.”

An image of Aunt Marge’s dog flashed through his mind. Snape had already seen it chasing him up that tree during their lessons the year before. With a tinge of relief that he wouldn’t have to reveal any new memories for this to work, he tried to pull up the emotions that he had felt in that moment at nine years old. Fear, anger, humiliation, longing…he doubled back, not sure where the longing had come from. Then he remembered the Dursleys laughing at him, his longing to have a real family, to be lov— He slammed the door on that thought, circling back to the fear. He’d felt several emotions in that moment, but the fear had been the strongest. Ripper the bulldog had bitten him before—he had a scar on his leg to prove it—and he’d been certain it was going to kill him if it managed to get its jaws around him a second time.

As soon as he felt certain that he’d filled his mind with the fear of that moment, he concentrated on attempting to push the fear out of his mind and into his hands. Like before though, he couldn’t quite figure out how. He tensed his arms—but let up a bit when he caught himself squeezing Snape’s too tightly—and tried to somehow shift the emotion downward, from his mind into his extremities. Nearly shaking with the effort, he finally stopped, defeated. He started to open his eyes but slammed them shut, not sure if he was expected to keep trying.

“That was enough,” Snape said. “We will reverse the connection now. As you do not yet know how to initiate the melding process, I will guide your mind into mine. It will feel strange, but it will work best if you surrender to it.”

Harry made a sound that he hoped would be taken for agreement. Well, Snape had free access to his mind, so of course he knew it was agreement. A half-hearted agreement, anyway. He didn’t _really_ want to see inside Snape’s mind. Or for Snape to be reading his thoughts while he thought about how much he didn’t want to see into Snape’s mind. To distract himself and to stop his thoughts from running wild, he asked, “Do you know what I did wrong?”

Snape hesitated before answering, “Perhaps my explanations will make more sense after you’ve seen a demonstration.”

Almost before he finished speaking, Harry felt a tug on his mind that was not unlike the tug around his navel that he’d felt during Portkey travel. He nearly wrenched an arm from Snape’s to steady himself on the floor again but managed not to. It really was the oddest sensation, as if his consciousness were traveling apart from his body, slowly merging with an unknown entity, almost becoming something or someone else. He involuntary jerked away from the entity, but it surrounded him again, slower this time, gently drawing him closer and closer until suddenly…they were one.

Harry drew in a panicked breath, and he didn’t know if the words _relax_ and _breathe_ drifting through his consciousness made it better or worse, since they clearly hadn’t come from his own mind. He took a few deep breaths, hating that his hands were shaking. He tentatively reached out mentally, doing his best to relax, trying to sense his unfamiliar surroundings. It was so different from his own mind, so…peaceful. Serene almost, which helped him to relax a bit more. There were no clear images to grab hold of, but he had the sense of a salt breeze, the sound of ocean waves. He didn’t know what he had imagined, but he certainly hadn’t expected Snape’s mind to be so…calm.

_Not calm. Controlled._ The words drifted through his mind, as if they were his own, though he knew that they weren’t.

“You can still hear my thoughts? I thought we were in _your_ head now!”

“The connection can go both ways. My connection to your mind is not as strong as before, but I am able to retain enough connection to gauge your understanding of what you will see. No more talking now. This will work best if you concentrate your efforts on what you see and hear with your mind.”

Harry bit his lip on all of the questions that he wanted to ask. All too soon, he was distracted when the serene landscape of Snape’s mind began to change. Again, he couldn’t make out specific images, but he had the peculiar sensation of diving under a body of water, of light and peace giving way to darkness and a churning that he soon identified as a strong emotion. Sadness enveloped him so intensely that he gasped out loud. It lingered, and Harry got the sense that Snape was giving him time to get used to it before continuing.

He opened his mouth to ask a question, then snapped his lips shut.

_Ask._ When Harry made a move to speak aloud, Snape clarified through their connection, _Mentally. Work on maintaining the mental connection._

It took him some time to feel that he could think his own thoughts without getting lost in the blanket of sadness. He tentatively thought the questions, hoping he was sending them to Snape correctly. _Why didn’t you have to use a memory to pull up your emotion? And why can’t I tell what you’re thinking except when you want to say specific things to me?_

_I have decades of experience controlling my mind, Potter_ , came the words directly into his mind, and Harry grinned at how even though he couldn’t hear a voice or its tone, he could tell they would be in Snape’s lecturing ‘you’re-a-dunderhead-aren’t-you?’ voice if spoken aloud. _The calm is the result of Occlusion. I fashioned the landscape of my mind into what I wanted you to see. My true mind is obscured, invisible to the average Legilimens. The abilities to pull up emotion at will or to only allow those thoughts that I permit to rise to the surface are the result of years of practice._

Harry nodded, figuring that Snape could probably sense a mental nod somewhere in there.

After another minute of silence, of floating in the emotion, of Harry becoming deeply affected by the grief that bordered the wall of sadness, it began to shift and move. But it wasn’t a physical sensation of movement so much as a _deepening_ of the grief. Its tendrils grabbed hold of Harry’s mind, became one with his own emotions, so that he was hardly aware when tears escaped from the corners of his eyes. He felt it invade every corner of his mind—no, Snape’s mind…it was becoming difficult to tell them apart—and he could feel it almost like a physical entity, spreading into the recesses of his heart and body, affecting his heart rate, causing his hands to tremble with its weight.

It lingered until Harry was certain he would collapse under its weight, and then it began to retreat, and in its retreat, Harry could finally sense the physicality of the emotion. He hardly noticed how his hands gripped Snape’s arms harder through the ebbing tide of sadness, as it withdrew from his body and from his consciousness until nothing remained save the calm scene that had first welcomed Harry upon entering Snape’s mind. It struck him then how through all of this—Snape’s intentional calm, his reaching for emotion, his deepening and lessening it at will—the one unifying element had been the sense of water. The serenity and crash of waves, the ebb and flow of tide, the choking sense of being drawn and caught under its power, even the powerful feeling of breaking through its surface.

He was so caught up in his observations and in the relief of peace after such overwhelming grief that it caught him by surprise when he felt another tug in his mind, more of a push this time, and he tried to follow its call, retreating to his own mind. He felt disoriented again, though not as badly as before. When he was sure that he and only he occupied his own mind, he opened his eyes and squinted into the light of the room.

Snape’s eyes were open and he was watching him carefully, probably gauging whether Harry had adjusted to the aftereffects of the mind meld. He must have been satisfied with what he saw, as he released Harry’s arms and moved back so that they were sitting a more comfortable distance apart. He held out Harry’s glasses.

Harry drew in a shaky breath that strongly reeked of salt and realized that his cheeks were wet. He hastily wiped the tears away with his sleeves, took the glasses, and put them on. Though he searched around for something to say to draw attention away from his tears, he still felt overwhelmed by all that he had experienced inside Snape’s mind. He’d never felt such overpowering grief before, except for maybe when Sirius…

“You can’t still read my mind, can you?” Harry asked, trying to empty his mind of thought just in case.

“No,” Snape said and then smirked. “But do not get too comfortable. We will discuss what you have learned, and then we will repeat the exercise.”

Snape conjured two glasses of clear liquid and held one out to Harry. “Drink,” he ordered and took a sip of his own as soon as Harry accepted the other. “Both your senses and your emotions will feel heightened until the effects of the potion wear off. Hydration will keep any disorientation at bay.”

“How long does the potion last?”

“Several hours, depending upon age and body mass. It will wear off far more quickly for me than for you.”

“Figures,” Harry groused half-heartedly, though he wasn’t upset. The explanation made sense. He tipped the glass to his lips but pulled it back with a grimace. “What _is_ this? It smells like soap. And metal. And something else, something ronk. Is it another potion?”

“No,” Snape looked at him oddly as he took another sip from his own glass. “It is water.”

Harry eyed the drink skeptically and sniffed it again. It did not smell _at all_ like water, but he experimentally took a sip—and promptly gagged. He hastily set it on the ground. He wasn’t _that_ thirsty.

Snape eyed him thoughtfully for a moment and then pulled out his wand to conjure another glass, this time containing something orange. He held it out. Harry obediently took it and sniffed from a safe distance. “It’s pumpkin juice, isn’t it? But it’s got _way_ more spices than usual. And somebody put soap in this one too.”

“You are smelling the dish soap that was used to wash the glasses.”

“Ew.” Harry sniffed again from a distance and pulled a face. “Is this from our kitchen? Maybe Dobby needs a break, if he’s not washing things properly.”

“The glass was washed and rinsed appropriately. All substances leave trace particles behind on the objects they touch, including soap, chemicals, food, sweat, and so on. The average nose cannot detect them. It is only due to the potion that you are able to now.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise. He wasn’t smelling a particle of soap. It was full-on _soap_.

“Tell me about the glass itself,” Snape instructed with a contemplative look.

“Um.” Harry didn’t know what Snape was after, but he examined the glass from each angle, trying to keep his distance from the pumpkin-soap juice. “It’s clear. Round. Made of glass?”

“What does it feel like?”

“Cool. Cold. It feels weird, like my fingers are cold too. Not in the usual way, like a glass making my fingers cold, but like as soon as I touched it, my fingers were the same temperature as the glass.” He looked up. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Snape shook his head. “It is merely your sense of touch being somewhat amplified. Tell me about the texture.”

“Uh…smooth?”

“Can you feel grooves or imperfections in the glass? Other than its temperature, do you feel anything that causes your hand discomfort?”

“No. Why? Should I?” Harry didn’t bother keeping the confusion from his voice. “What does this have to do with Occlumency?”

Snape tapped his fingers on his own glass as he studied Harry. He _definitely_ had his puzzle-figuring face on now. He took another sip from his glass, then plucked Harry’s glass from his fingers and set both to the side. “Nothing at the moment. We will discuss it another time. For now, we must continue with the lesson at hand. The potion should be utilized while still at its peak effectiveness. Now, do you understand what I did and how I did it?”

Harry eyed Snape for a few seconds, considering the pros and cons of letting him change the subject while Harry’s curiosity was still piqued, but he caved. He leaned back on his hands while he thought it over. “Your emotion was stronger than mine. But…I don’t think it’s because I chose a weak emotion. More like…I think I really didn’t give myself over to mine completely, not like you did.”

“Correct,” Snape nodded. “Emotions are not playthings. They have power. But in order to harness that power, you must learn how to let it exert power over you.”

“How…” Harry paused, thinking it over. “How do you stay in control when you let something else have power over you? I don’t understand.” Harry shrugged as well as he could with his weight on his arms.

“The control is in how you choose to harness the emotion. When you hesitated to give in to it, showed a fear of losing yourself in it, you were allowing it control over you.”

Harry shifted his weight onto one arm so that he could scratch an itch on his nose as he thought. “What’s to stop me losing myself in it? If I give myself over to the emotion, any emotion… How can I be in control if _it’s_ in control of _me_?”

“Practice,” said Snape, and Harry wanted to roll his eyes at how professor-like he sounded.

Still, Harry sat up, readying himself to mind meld again. “Okay. Once more, then?”

Snape shook his head. “Not yet. Tell me what else you noticed. I know you made at least one other discovery.”

“Um…” Harry squinted his eyes as he thought through the experience of being in Snape’s mind—the part of his mind that he let him into, anyway. He could tell by the look in Snape’s eyes that he was prompting Harry for something specific. Which meant Harry’d probably thought it while still in his mind. “Oh! Yeah. Water. I don’t even know how to describe it, it’s not like I saw water or anything. I _felt_ it though. You used it somehow in everything you did. You used the idea of water to create the calm, and to pull up your emotion, and to move it. Didn’t you?”

Snape inclined his head. “The mind is complex. If you can find something concrete to tie it to—preferably something powerful or elemental—it will aid in your attempts to control it.”

“Elemental,” Harry repeated slowly. “Like…water, fire, earth, and air? Those elements?”

“One of those is a good place to start,” agreed Snape, “but I would avoid water. It works for me, but should you come face to face with the Dark Lord, it would not do for him to see too many similarities to my mind in yours.”

Harry almost asked why it would matter since Snape wasn’t a spy anymore, but he thought better of it. Not only was it probably a touchy subject, but who knew what the future had in store? If anybody had the intelligence and cunning to somehow get his spy status back, it was Severus Snape. Or maybe it was simply a good idea to keep Voldemort from knowing how much his former follower was helping out his worst enemy.

He cocked his head to the side, thinking through the elements. Water was out. He wasn’t sure how earth would work. He tried to imagine shifting sand or rolling meadows, but they didn’t feel right. Fire might work…but the violence of flames ripping through his mind made him shiver. Air… He closed his eyes and pulled up the breeze of the ocean air that he’d felt in Snape’s mind, imagined it twist and turn into something else—a wind storm, a whirlwind, a mountain breeze. He opened his eyes to find Snape patiently watching him. Well. Air was worth a try, anyway.

“Now?” He asked, flexing his fingers. “Or is there more I should know before I try again?”

Snape moved forward so that their knees were nearly touching again. “You are taking the physical movement of emotion too literally. You do not need to attempt to move it so much as to channel it. This time, attempt to use it to affect a physical change in your body, such as your heart rate or blood flow.”

At Harry’s skeptical look, Snape added, “Focus on the intensity of the emotion and try using your chosen element to shift it through your consciousness.”

Harry sighed softly. The bits about giving himself over to the emotion and changing the way he thought about its physical nature made sense to him, even if he wasn’t sure he could do them yet. But he wasn’t quite sure what he was even supposed to do with the element of air once he pulled it up in his mind. Snape had made it look so easy that it seemed a part of him, not something he purposely manipulated.

Snape motioned for Harry to hold out his hands like before, and soon their wrists were clasped, their eyes were closed, and Harry felt the nudge of Snape’s mind at the edge of his. It was just as odd as before, but as soon as he was sure Snape’s mind was completely merged with his own, he pulled up the memory of Ripper the bulldog. He lingered on his memories of the dog’s open jaws chasing him for a few seconds, considering the best way to pull up the fear so that he’d be able to _really_ feel it, like Snape had his sadness. No matter how he tried though, he couldn’t quite let it consume him.

Snape was silent, allowing Harry to work through it. Of course, he was wary to think through _anything_ too much, so long as Snape was there to witness it. But when Snape didn’t make a move to mock him even though he couldn’t have missed Harry _thinking_ about Snape mocking him, he hesitantly gave the problem some real thought. Finally, he decided to go back further, to the first time Ripper had bit him. Maybe the source of the fear would work better for him than the later memory. Snape had said that childhood memories were more intense anyway. He’d been younger then, so…

He was seven. Aunt Marge had brought her new puppy the previous year, but it had grown since then, and it growled at Harry as soon as Marge walked through the door. It was almost Christmas, and Harry was exhausted from cleaning for Aunt Marge’s visit, so he backed up, trying to avoid notice by blending in with the tree. Unfortunately, he tripped over one of Dudley’s many presents, sprawling backwards and hitting his head on the end table. He’d no sooner registered the pain in his head than he felt a white-hot pain in his leg and looked down to see Ripper’s jaws clenched on his calf. He barely heard Aunt Marge’s screams—not at Ripper, but at Harry’s clumsiness for making her dear, darling dog uneasy—and Dudley’s laughter before he felt a blinding fear that this was it, this was the moment Uncle Vernon made good on all his threats. Surely he would let the bulldog kill him, and he wouldn’t have to bother with feeding and housing Harry anymore, and and…

Harry pulled up the fear, imagined it whirling up through his body like a twister, taking over his mind and his heart. He trembled with the sudden force of emotion, made stronger by the nightmares he’d had the rest of that Christmas week, alone and sore in his cupboard in the pitch dark, his childish mind conjuring up scenario after scenario in which they unlocked the cupboard door only to let Ripper in to finish the job. He tried not to think about whether he was using the emotion correctly, just focused on becoming fear itself, on it pulsing through his veins, until his breath was coming in sharp gasps.

He felt the presence in his mind whisper against his then. _Release the fear. Draw yourself away from its hold. Feel it retreat._

He tried to listen to the voice. He pushed against the fear, drew himself away from it, tried to imagine the twister softening into a fierce wind, fragments of fear coiling away from him into its pull. He couldn’t push it all away though. He tried to pull up a sort of calm like Snape had in his mind, imagining a gentle breeze whistling through his mind, soothing away his fears. But for all his efforts, he could still feel remnants of the fear his seven-year old mind had felt in that moment long ago.

He gave up after several minutes of deep breaths and opened his eyes to find Snape’s eyes already open and watching him. Staring at him, actually, and he looked incredulous, even a little bit angry. Perhaps it was the last vestige of emotion clinging to him, but Harry cringed out of habit, not sure what he’d done to deserve anger this time. Snape released his arms, and Harry felt the last threads of their mental connection snap so suddenly that he felt another twinge of disorientation. He put out a hand to steady himself.

Snape stood and started pacing, and Harry decided to wait him out. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had done, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to goad the professor. Snape seemed maybe to even be trying to calm himself down. Finally, he stopped and glared.

“Were you even _trying_ last year?” he spat.

Harry was so surprised by the question that he simply stared.

“You’re a _natural,_ ” Snape said accusingly, glaring daggers at Harry. “Wild and untrained, yes. Your mind is completely disorderly and wholly untamed. But the building blocks are there—the natural talent. You have the makings of an Occlumens. Which leads me to the conclusion that you didn’t even _try_ to put effort into practicing last year!”

Harry gaped. Only Snape could compliment Harry and accuse him in the same breath. And sure, he was right that Harry hadn’t tried all that hard last year. But wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black! He wasn’t about to let it go without reminding the professor of that, either. “Well maybe if _someone_ had explained what I was supposed to do last year, I’d have actually known _how_ to practice!”

“Don’t you blame me—”

“Why not?” Harry shot to his feet. “You were my teacher! How was I supposed to know how to clear my mind if you never taught me how? Just _clear your mind, Potter, repel my attacks, Potter_ , over and over, and not ever once helping me to figure out how!”

Snape glared at him but didn’t answer right away, and Harry was just fine with that. He was losing some of his steam because the room was beginning to tilt in a way that he was fairly certain it wasn’t supposed to do. He shot out his arms to balance himself, but Snape caught him by the elbow before he could fall over.

“Sit, you foolish boy,” Snape muttered as he helped an unsteady Harry to sit down. “The potion is still in full effect. Until it wears off, do not test it by making sudden movements.” He seemed to have lost his steam as well, for an instant later, he lowered himself back to the floor across from Harry.

They eyed each other warily for several moments, until Harry finally looked away. “You’re right,” he quietly admitted. “I didn’t practice like I should have. But I swear, I really didn’t understand how. Even though I know I should have tried to figure it out, should have wanted it more, that part _is_ true.”

Snape took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know,” he admitted, surprising Harry into looking up. “Now. I didn’t want to see it then, but I know now.” The professor looked about as sincere as Harry had ever seen him.

Harry gave a tentative smile…and watched Snape’s wall go back up. But he thought it maybe wasn’t quite so formidable as before, so he left a trace of a smile on his face, sat up straight, and asked, “Okay, what next?”


	28. Occlumency, Part 2

_Griffin. Breathe in._

_Hippogriff. Breathe out._

_I… I… I… Iguana! Breathe in._

_J… Jellyfish. Breathe out._

Harry turned his head almost imperceptibly, trying not to be noticed. The last thing he needed was for Snape to scold him again over his wandering attention.

_Kneazle. Breathe in._

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the professor still sitting at the potions counter, poring over a book.

_Lion. Breathe out._

He knew this was supposed to focus his mind and calm his body, but really. Being told to sit against the wall and list animals alphabetically like a child’s game? It was a little bit insulting.

_Monkey. Breathe in._

At least he didn’t have to do it out loud like the first time, listing the names of charms and spells. He’d felt like an idiot when he couldn’t think of spell names for each letter of the alphabet. And he was pretty sure Snape had been compiling a mental list of the flaws in Harry’s magical education.

_N… N… What started with an “n”? N… Newt!_ He let out his breath in a rush, darting his eyes straight ahead when Snape raised his head to watch him.

_O…O… Eh. Snape wouldn’t know if he skipped one. Breathe in._

_P… Pig. Breathe out._

“That will do,” Snape said, and Harry looked up hopefully. “Are you still disoriented?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “Why does it keep hitting me anyway? I thought the dizziness was supposed to wear off, not keep coming back.”

Snape stood and closed his book. He crooked a finger at Harry to join him at the potions counter and studied him closely as he walked, probably making sure Harry was steadier than he’d been earlier. “Mental acuity potions can affect users differently depending on a variety of factors.” At Harry’s questioning look, he listed, “Age, body mass, emotional development, not to mention the body’s sensitivity to stimuli. This potion is harmless for a boy your age, but you may be more sensitive to the side effects due to a combination of those factors, not to mention your stunted physical development.”

“Oy!” Harry jerked his head. “I’m not _stunted_.”

“You have always been shorter and thinner than your father at the same age,” Snape said unapologetically, eyeing him like an insect under a microscope. Harry was too offended to squirm. “I never gave it much thought before, but it is obviously due to a lack of sufficient nutrition during your formative childhood years.”

Harry scowled. What Snape said might very well be true, but he didn’t need to spell it out like that. Some things just shouldn’t be said.

Snape gave him an unsympathetic and knowing look as he shoved the book away. “If you don’t want the truth, Mr. Potter, do not ask the questions.”

Harry harrumphed. “You know, there’s this skill some people have of being honest without being an arse about it. I think they call it _tact_.” He defiantly crossed his arms over his chest. He’d rather be annoyed and rude than show embarrassment. Though at least Snape had said _lack of sufficient nutrition_ instead of _deprived and starved_. It sounded marginally better. Maybe even a little bit tactful, he grudgingly admitted, if only to himself.

“Language, Potter,” Snape said but didn’t sound upset. He was already moving to sit on the floor. “Shall we?”

Harry hesitated only a moment before obediently trailing behind to sit across from the professor.

They had run through the mind melding exercise several more times, and each time Harry was a little bit better at channeling and releasing the emotion. He was nowhere near as good as Snape at controlling his mind, but he was happy with his progress. Exhausted, too. Pulling up such deep emotion, as well as reliving the memory with Ripper and the dark cupboard over and over, had taken its toll. By the last time through, he’d have been tempted to curl up and take a nap right there on the laboratory floor if not for Snape’s presence. He wondered if that’s why Snape had called an end to the lesson. He’d been in Harry’s mind when he’d had the thought about taking a nap, after all. Harry couldn’t seem to hide _anything_ from the man while he was in his head like that.

Of course, Snape had looked pretty exhausted by then too. Even though he wasn’t the one pulling up the fear or going through mental hoops trying to manipulate physical responses to emotions, Harry knew from the experience of being in Snape’s mind that the connection deeply affected the viewer. He felt kind of bad now, come to think of it. He’d at least already lived through the dog bite and the long days of being hurt and hungry and scared in the locked cupboard. It was a distant memory, one he’d come to terms with a long time ago. Snape had had to experience it for the first time and then over and over because Harry had chosen the memory and made him relive it alongside him.

The professor didn’t say anything about it, not once, not even though he’d looked like he was trying to rein in his temper again after their third time through. Harry let it pass without comment, without asking why Snape was upset this time, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. He didn’t think he was angry at Harry, because if he was, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell Harry what he was doing wrong. If he was angry at having to go through the mind meld over and over, he merely had to stop the lesson. The possibility occurred to Harry (after Snape had left his mind, thankfully) that the professor’s anger was directed at the Dursleys. But he wasn’t sure how he felt about Snape being angry on his behalf. The thought was too strange. And it had implications he didn’t want to consider. So he didn’t ask, and they mind melded again and relived the memory again and washed themselves in Harry’s fear again until finally their minds—or at least Harry’s mind—was in dire need of a break.

A positive side to all the exhaustion was that Harry couldn’t spare much energy for embarrassment. He reminded himself that Snape already knew about the Dursleys and his cupboard, and he was proud of himself for (mostly) pushing any more thought of it out of his mind. If he wanted to learn Occlumency— _really_ wanted to learn it this time—he was going to have to get used to revealing a few humiliating memories and thoughts. He had enough to go around, after all. At least he could console himself by knowing that Snape was never going to know _everything_.

He was getting a lot closer than Harry had ever wanted him to though.

“Same thing, then?” Harry asked after they were both settled on the floor. “Or do you want me to pull up a different emotion this time?”

Snape studied him for a long moment before saying, “A change in direction, I think. You’ve gone through that exercise enough with my guidance to be able to practice it on your own from now on.”

Harry nodded, relieved. Just the thought of pulling up that fear over and over all morning was exhausting.

“Do you recall our exercise in locating your dominant sense?”

“Er, yes.” Harry cocked his head to the side, wondering where Snape was going with this.

“You seemed to successfully clear your mind by focusing on your sense of touch.”

Harry nodded.

“Do you remember how you did it?”

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugged. “You told me to focus on my breathing and your hand, and I did, and I fell asleep, and that was that.”

“Are you certain?”

“Certain it worked?” Harry furrowed his brow. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, even my vision self said I managed to clear my mind.”

Snape gave him a _look_ that told him what he still thought about his visions, but he didn’t comment on that part. “I meant, are you certain that it was touch that you focused your mind on before you fell asleep.”

“Um…yes?” Harry dropped his eyes to the floor and scratched behind his ear as he thought. “I remember breathing in and out, calming my mind, and focusing on the touch, like you said. I don’t remember thinking anything else…but it’s possible. I _was_ falling asleep, you know. Things get hazy.”

“And when you managed to pull away from the Dark Lord’s mind? Do you remember how you accomplished that?”

“I…” Harry wrinkled his nose as he thought about that terrible day, the day Ron had been hurt. It was difficult to remember the details though. He’d been plunged into Voldemort’s mind without warning, seen his friend’s house about to be attacked, and even after he’d managed to pull his mind away, he’d been in shock about what he’d seen. The aftermath was a rush of frantic hustle, worried waiting, and way too much stress and grief. How was he supposed to remember something so small in that one tiny, action-packed moment in a grief-packed day? He shook his head apologetically. “I don’t remember. Does it really matter? I mean, well, of course it matters, if you’re asking. Just…what are you thinking?”

Snape tapped his chin with a long finger. “Touch may indeed be an effective trigger in aiding you to control your mind. Your sense of touch _is_ somewhat heightened.” He frowned as he thought aloud. “But as evidenced by the side effects of this potion, _smell_ is quite obviously your dominant sense. So strong is it that I would wager that you tapped into your sense of smell during one or more of those incidences, even if you were not consciously aware of it. That sense is perhaps so deeply ingrained in your day to day functioning that you rather take it for granted.”

“Um, well…that would be true of most senses, wouldn’t it?” Harry pointed out. “We don’t notice them until we need them, a lot of the time.”

“It is a matter of degree,” said Snape. “The more highly developed a skill or sense, the less we tend to take conscious note of it.”

Harry bit his lip. He could see why Snape would reach the conclusion about his sense of smell, with how sharp it had been since he’d consumed the mind melding potion. Just thinking about it made him wrinkle up his nose again at the strong mixture of various aromas in the room, and he wondered if he had the potion to thank for not having a headache from it all. He wasn’t all that certain why it mattered though. It was just _smell_.

“In fact, I believe that you may be altogether more sensory than I’d imagined,” Snape was saying. “It may be the key to focusing your mind, having something tangible to tether it to.”

“I thought we were already trying the…um, tangible approach.”

“We tried the ‘tangible approach’ as an _exercise_ , Potter,” Snape said as if he should _clearly_ know the difference between an exercise and a game plan. Harry barely managed not to roll his eyes. Snape was such a _professor_ sometimes. “It was meant to give you something to focus on at the time, a way to practice disciplining your mind. However, I believe that you may benefit from a more comprehensive immersion into harnessing the senses.”

Harry wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, only that it sounded like a lot of work. “So what do you mean by me being ‘more sensory’ than you thought?” he asked, deciding to focus on one question at a time.

“Most people have one or two dominant senses. As do you. However, proving that you are once again the exception to the rule,” Snape said dryly, “almost all of your senses are heightened to some degree. For the average wizard, locating their dominant sense would open a pathway for the mind. For a wizard with above average sensory perception, a more careful approach is needed. Your senses are more likely to act in tandem without intention or notice, helpful in many situations, but obstructing or even overloading the mind when applied to the practice of Occlumency.” He looked assessingly at Harry. “I might go so far as to theorize that to be one of the reasons you have not been successful at harnessing your mind to the study of Occlumency, despite your natural aptitude for the art.”

“How so?”

“It could be one contributor to your lack of focus. Of course, you are a _teenager_ ,” he said as if referring to a particularly irksome species of insect, “and so I would hardly go so far as to blame sensory input for all of your shortcomings. But it could be exacerbating your attempts to clear your mind. And your lack of discipline. Not to mention your—”

“Okay, okay,” Harry muttered and decided he didn’t need that question expounded on any more. “What makes you think I’m so different anyway? Sensory-wise, I mean?”

“I have been inside your mind for the past two _hours_ , Potter,” Snape said as if he were talking to a child, a fact which Harry decided not to resent because he really wanted his questions answered. “All but one of your senses are heightened to some degree under the influence of this potion, one to an absurd level, which suggests that when in their natural state, they are collecting a more than average amount of information. Not so much as to constitute a sensory disorder, mind,” he added as if it were an afterthought. “You are still within an acceptable, functional range. But it is enough to bombard your body and mind with an abundance of data. Combined with emotional trauma resultant from childhood abuse, and it is little wonder that your mind is so disorganized and lacking in focus.”

Harry just barely held in a flinch at the word ‘abuse.’ He still hated that word, at least when applied to him. He tried not to let it show, but he was positive that the professor already knew it.

Snape added, “Your inability to control your emotions at times is another factor, as well as—”

“All _right_. I get the picture,” snapped Harry, rather tired of being dissected, and a bit overwhelmed at how much appeared to be _wrong_ with him. Just how much thought had Snape put into how Harry ticked since finding out about the Dursleys, anyway? An awful lot, apparently, and the thought made him distinctly uncomfortable.

“The good news, of course,” continued Snape as if Harry hadn’t interrupted, “is that once understood, heightened senses can provide a natural tether to the world around you. Once you utilize your senses rather than allowing them control over you, the finer skills involved in Occlumency should naturally follow.”

Harry sat quietly for a few seconds, thinking about that. “But…” he stopped and cleared his throat, not sure he should give voice to his insecurities. But he needed answers more than he needed to save face, so he charged ahead. “But if my senses are running amok, if my mind’s all…um, disorderly, what makes you think it can even be done? If I’m so messed up, what makes you so sure I have the makings to be an Occlumens? Maybe we’re going through all this for nothing,” he added, frustrated and defeated. He smoothed his fringe over his scar, not wanting to look Snape in the eyes after his rant but needing to see his answer.

His question was met with silence as Snape watched him for a several long seconds. When the professor finally spoke, it was to murmur in a stunned voice, “You really _aren’t_ arrogant, are you?”

Harry didn’t answer, though come to think of it, the question was probably rhetorical. He huffed a loud sigh. They were still there? He’d thought Snape had already come to that conclusion, but apparently first impressions die hard.

Snape cleared his throat and shook himself out of whatever state he was in. His eyes didn’t quite meet Harry’s when he said softly, “Those are impediments, Potter, not defects. They are mere roadblocks to overcome in training your mind. They may even, as I said, be assets to you in time, the key to becoming a powerful Occlumens in your own right.”

Harry wanted to ask how _emotional trauma resultant from childhood…_ well, how that could be an asset, but he couldn’t think how to ask the question without asking the question. And he wasn’t about to ask the question.

Thankfully (or unfortunately—Harry still wasn’t sure which), Snape proved his observational skills yet again by saying unprompted, “Those who have never lived through trying circumstances will faint at the first sign of trouble. The untried mind is a weak mind. Adversity, on the other hand, breeds strength, and strength is vital to the development of skill. In my haste to assume you untried, I mistook your moments of bravery for arrogance and foolhardiness.” He shook his head. “You learned at an early age to stand up to danger, well knowing the consequences. While you still must learn to discern between courage and recklessness, your strength will also serve you well in developing the skill of defending yourself from mental attacks.”

Harry felt like he was looking with new eyes at Snape, so unexpected was that little speech. It sounded mostly complimentary, so…not Snape. And Snape had said the words with such conviction that Harry was startled to realize that Snape had meant what he’d said. Maybe…just maybe, the professor really didn’t hate him anymore. Harry’d already started to think that, but this was a different sort of revelation. As in, maybe Snape had admitted to _himself_ that he didn’t hate Harry anymore.

Mind. Blown.

Before Harry could dwell too much on it, Snape gestured for him to lay his hands palm up on his knees. He placed his own wrists over Harry’s, clasped his lower arms, and instructed him to close his eyes. Harry automatically did as he was told, forcing their conversation to the back of his mind for later contemplation. He began readying his mind for the sensation of merging with another presence.

“Before I enter your mind,” Snape instructed, “pull up a recent memory. Something sensory. A memory in which you distinctly remember using your sense of smell. The more vivid you can remember it, the better.”

“What am I going to do with it?” Harry asked with his eyes closed.

“To begin, you are simply going to focus your mind. A variation on the exercise we completed last week. Choose a memory,” Snape repeated.

Harry chewed on his lip. He was thankful that Snape was giving him a chance this time to sift through memories before he entered his mind. But finding an innocuous memory was still hard. Recent…hmm. He thought of the past two weeks they’d been at Grimmauld Place, but nothing stood out that could be described as _vivid_. Naturally, he had no trouble pulling up the beginning of summer. The musty pile of clothes on the hard floor where he’d slept at the Dursleys, the dirt and sweat while his hands were rubbed raw from weeding, the smell of burnt bacon just before his head had been grazed by the edge of a swinging frying pan. But from the resentment already starting to bubble up inside him, he thought he’d have a rather difficult time focusing his mind if he brought up any of those memories.

“Do you have one?” Snape’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Harry huffed in frustration and opened his eyes. “Does it have to be happy?”

“Not necessarily,” Snape answered slowly, watching him through narrowed eyes. “But it will be easier for you to complete the next exercise if you select a memory moderately associated with a state of calm.”

_Calm._ Harry frowned. When was the last time he’d felt calm? Not a forced calm, like when practicing Occlumency or chopping up potions ingredients, but really calm? He couldn’t even remember.

Snape removed his hands from Harry’s and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “In the chaos of the past week, I’d nearly forgotten how problematic it is to use your memories as a focus for your mental practice.”

“You? Forget something?” Harry joked with a grin, which he dropped at Snape’s sharp look. An awkward silence lingered between them, and Harry was oddly fascinated that he’d forgotten himself enough to _tease_ Professor Snape. And that’s what he’d done. He hadn’t griped or fought or barbed or grumbled. He’d _teased_. _Professor Snape_. He should probably be afraid for his life, but instead he felt the strangest urge to laugh.

Especially as Snape was eyeing him like a strange sort of bug, probably trying to decide if Harry had intended disrespect. Harry wondered if the man even knew the difference between a tease and a barb. Did he have any friendships at all in his life like Harry had with Ron and Hermione? And because Snape already was looking at him like he’d sprouted another head, he figured no more harm could be done in asking.

“Do you professors all hang out in your free time? Like friends and such? Or do you just spend your free time in your offices and personal quarters?”

Now Snape was looking at him like he’d sprouted a third head. “Are you disoriented again?” He reached out a hand to Harry’s head, pausing after Harry flinched away and then feeling his forehead anyway.

“No.” Harry batted the hand away. “Just curious. Are you friends with McGon—I mean, Professor McGonagall? Or maybe Professor Flitwick. He seems like he’d make a good professor-type friend.”

“I have never met anyone so easily distracted as you,” Snape gave his head a slight shake, his baffled expression morphing into exasperation.

Harry wanted to point out that _obviously_ he had met plenty of more distracted kids; he was a professor of _eleven-year-olds_ , after all, and been witness to countless exploding cauldrons over the years. But instead he wheedled, “It’s not like it’ll kill you to answer. You’ve got to at least spend _holidays_ with somebody. You’re not a _total_ Scrooge, I think, no matter how much you want people to think so. You’ve got to have a friend or two. Maybe if you just tell me, my mind can let it go and get back on track.” He gave his best innocent expression.

“Alternatively, we can skip the information that is _none of your business_ and get back on track _now._ ” the professor said imperiously, but Harry wasn’t fooled. Snape wasn’t angry or even all that annoyed, really. He could milk it a bit longer.

“So you’re saying that you _are_ a Scrooge?” he slyly asked. “You know, if that’s the case, secrets have a way of coming out... _haunting_ you…that sort of thing. So you might as well just tell me now.”

Snape crossed his arms and gave him a glare. “Even Ebenezer Scrooge did not willingly divulge his secrets.”

“Ha!” Harry’s eyes lit up and he pointed a finger at Snape. “I was right! You _do_ read Dickens!”

He was even more proud of himself when Snape didn’t have a ready comeback. He didn’t protest that he’d seen a movie version of _A Christmas Carol_ or that he was familiar with pop culture. His silence was proof that he’d read it. Harry’d out-Slytherined the Slytherin! Again! Sure, he didn’t get his main question answered, but he’d managed to trick him into giving away the answer to at least _one_ of his personal questions of the last few days.

Snape was a reader. And now Harry knew it. A small win, but a win just the same.

Snape couldn’t hide a twitch of his lips. Harry thought for certain that he had been fighting a smile, which he counted as another win even though the man’s lips smoothly straightened out into a stern line. “Allow me to reiterate, Potter, that my personal life is of no concern to you. I suggest we get back on track _now_. This potion will not last indefinitely.”

Harry wanted to argue. Snape’s personal life was of sudden interest to him, definitely of more interest than thinking about how his own most vivid recent memories consisted of pain and loss. But seeing as how he’d obtained a partial victory—and Snape was right that it wasn’t really his business—he clamped his lips shut and slouched back to lean on his hands. Well, not his business for right now, anyway. He determined not to give up. One way or another, even if he had to spy on the professor during the school year, he was going to find out whether the man had any real, live friends. And maybe, just maybe, he’d even catch him in the act of smiling. If the man even knew how to smile. Which was doubtful. But it seemed more possible the more he got to know him.

“Okay,” he focused his mind back on the topic at hand. “Okay, so if memories are problematic, what am I supposed to do? Try it anyway? Hope I can come up with something that works? Or can I just do it without a memory?”

“There are many ways to focus your mind and your senses without memories. Memories, however, tend to be most effective for beginners. We will at least attempt it before moving on to other methods. Think again, but this time simply envision a moment in which you felt calm or relaxed. We can recreate the sensory experience from there.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, finding this just as hard as before. But a memory nudged its way into his thoughts, one that hadn’t occurred to him before…probably because it wasn’t real. He looked up at Snape through his fringe, considering. Snape looked back at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for Harry to voice his question.

He took a deep breath and raised his chin. “Do memories of dreams count?”

“Dreams.” Snape said the word like it was foreign on his tongue, then said, “Dreams are not tangible. To link them to sensory experience is unduly troublesome. Particularly for a beginner in the art of Occlumency.”

“But…what if the dream _is_ tangible?”

“That is not the nature of dreams,” refuted Snape.

“Maybe not usual dreams,” Harry argued, “but my _vision_ dreams were tangible. They felt like I was really there, as real as when I’m awake.”

Snape’s face showed his dawning comprehension and just as quickly his skepticism. “That you believe your visions to be real does not make them so. They are still by nature dreams. And dreams lack the necessary experiential component to be effective in such an exercise.”

“Still. It felt real, it really did,” Harry insisted. “Couldn’t I at least try?”

Snape studied him for a long moment, then asked, “What is so unique about this particular memory that you are so inclined toward it?”

“I felt calm,” Harry said simply. “Relaxed. It’s the only recent memory that fits. And it was real. Tangible, I mean. Sensory. I could feel, smell, hear…all those things, professor. And anyway,” he shrugged, “if it doesn’t work, I choose a different memory and move on, right? What’s the harm in trying?”

Snape studied him through narrowed eyes before motioning him to sit up. “Once. We will try it once. When you fail, we shall move on.”

“Gee. Thanks for the pep talk,” Harry muttered but held out his wrists for Snape to clasp. Snape ignored the comment, and almost immediately, Harry felt his familiar presence merging with his own mind. After doing this over and over throughout the morning, he wasn’t quite so overwhelmed anymore by the sensation. It still felt _different_ and somewhat invasive, but it was starting to feel more natural at the same time.

“Pull up the memory,” instructed Snape. “The moment in your dream when you felt most calm. Immerse yourself in the moment, remembering any sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and other sensations. Attempt to lose yourself in them, thinking of nothing else.”

Harry ignored the way Snape’s voice betrayed his skepticism that this would work. Well, actually, Harry _thought_ about ignoring Snape’s skepticism, which he supposed didn’t constitute ignoring, since he’d had to actually think about it in order to think about ignoring it. Ugh. He was doing it again: thinking too much into every thought because he knew that Snape could hear his every thought. Or could he hear it, really? More like feel it… Read it?

Snape cleared his throat.

Right. Getting back on track, then…

Harry thought back to the last vision he’d had from his other self. Seer self? Inner self..? Anyway. Other Harry, whatever he was. He imagined the green grass, the bordering lake, and the clear blue summer sky. He imagined himself sitting on the grass, breathing in the smells of not only the grass, but other scents in the air: popsicles, a light whiff of perfume in the breeze, and the natural floral aroma of the nearby flowers. He didn’t bother to imagine Other Harry there with him. It was the setting that calmed him, not his mirror image telling him that he’d soon be captured by Voldemort.

Aaaand capture was _really_ not the thing to think about when he was trying to reach a state of calm.

Just to feel more like he was there, he focused his mind on the touch of grass between his fingers. It was difficult to imagine, as he could clearly feel Snape’s skin, not blades of grass. But he tried. He thought of the muffled voices, the chatter of the group of people nearby, the laughter of the children. He tried to imagine them together—sunshine on his face, smell of grass in his nostrils, laughter in his ears. Sunshine, smell, laughter. Breathe in, out, in, out. Sunshine. In. Flowers. Out. Laughter. In.

They sat for several minutes while Harry repeated it like a mantra in his head. He could tell it wasn’t fully working. He couldn’t clear his head of thought altogether and just _be_. But it had to have been working at least a little bit, for he felt much calmer than he had before starting. Simply imagining that clear, beautiful day and the happiness that it brought to the dream-people made him let go of some of the stress that had been gathering in his neck and between his shoulder blades. He took in another breath and consciously relaxed his body, letting some of the stress of the last few days flow through his body and out of his nostrils with each breath.

Snape lightly squeezed his wrists in warning that he was about to speak, and Harry was grateful. During one of their earlier exercises, Harry had been so immersed in his memory of Ripper that he’d nearly jumped out of his skin when Snape had said something out loud. The warning squeeze was a small sign that they were learning how to work together, and Harry might have grinned at that thought if he hadn’t been trying so hard not to break his concentration.

“You were…correct in that this dream is more tangible than the typical dream.” Snape obviously didn’t want to admit that, and Harry tried so hard to not think _I told you so_ that he thought it anyway _._ Snape didn’t comment. “I am going to use a spell to amplify some of the sensations you recall. Focus your memory and your mind on them. Do not be startled to feel or sense some of them in the air around you.”

Harry nodded, and he felt Snape remove one of his hands from his. He tried to focus on the imagined feel of the grass, not on the suddenly cold skin of his wrist, as Snape muttered some words and Harry heard the slight swish of a wand near his head. He spared one thought for how horrified Ron would be to hear that Harry hadn’t even flinched as Snape pointed a wand at his head while his eyes were closed. But he immediately redirected his mind, imagining the sensations, and was rewarded when a moment later, he felt as if he really were on that grassy field next to a shimmering lake with the sunshine on his face. He reflexively raised his chin to meet the heat of the sun, but the artificial heat that the spell created didn’t come from a source above him like a sun; it surrounded him. He tried not to dwell on the evidence that what he felt wasn’t real, instead inhaling deeply of the scents of grass and flower and fresh air.

“The spell will recreate what you imagine,” said Snape as he replaced the hand on Harry’s wrist. “It will follow your mind where it goes. For now, focus on only one sensation—smell—so as not to overwhelm your mind. Remember: immerse yourself in it, until your mind is clear of all else.”

_Clear my mind_ , Harry said to himself like a mantra. _Clear my mind_.

“Until your mind is clear of all else, including the thought to clear your mind,” added Snape dryly.

“Um. Right.” He took a deep breath, focusing in on the scents in the air around him, trying to not to even think of what they were, just trying to let go of conscious thought and experience them. It was even more difficult to not think about his breathing, but after a while, he let go the thoughts of his chest rising and falling. He smelled the grass and flowers and let his body simply exist.

He had no idea how long they sat in silence before he again felt the slight squeeze of his wrists, followed by Snape’s quiet voice. “Draw yourself slowly away from the memory. Allow yourself to focus on the sensations and scents of the room around you rather than those of your dream. Try your best to experience the change without concrete thought or words.”

Harry did as he was told, though it was difficult to limit his thinking, as Snape’s instructions had already somewhat drawn him away from his memory. He allowed himself a few minutes to re-immerse himself in the dream world before reaching out for his more immediate surroundings. He first latched onto the muted scent of potions, mingled with clay and spice. He felt himself drawn away from the dream, into the waking world… But first into the memory of a pair of arms surrounding him, cradling him against a chest. Rough cloth. Beating heart. A faint whiff of lilac in the air.

_Safe_. The world flowed unbidden through his mind, and he relaxed into the memory, breathing in the welcome scent of dirt and flower and clove and feeling protected like he hadn’t felt in so long… Held, like he’d longed to be held as a child, but the Dursleys never did, always pushing him away when he was too young to know better than to try to hug them like Dudley did. But now, he felt calm, safe…

A squeeze of his wrists, not as gentle as before, drew him from the memory, focused his mind on other sensations…hands clasping his, solid ground beneath him, scents combining in the air. Before too long, he was completely aware of the room around him, present in his mind, though he still felt a tad bit hazy. The potion again, probably. He hesitantly opened his eyes and squinted against the light of the room.

“That was trippy,” he said, blinking slowly to adjust his eyes. “But kind of cool. Did I do it right?”

Snape withdrew his arms and his mind from Harry’s but didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Harry with a blank expression, which quickly turned pensive.

“What did I do wrong?” Harry asked automatically, not liking the way he was being studied, like Snape didn’t know what to do with him. He looked away, thinking through the exercise. He’d cleared his mind, he knew he had. The dream memory had worked. He opened his mouth to say a more diplomatic version of _I told you so_ , but before he could, the tail end of the exercise played through his mind. _Oh._ He opened his eyes wide, sneaking a glance at Snape, who was pushing himself to his feet and walking over to his potions cupboard.

Harry wanted to sink through the floor. He’d relived the memory of Snape holding him, waking him up from that vision dream a week ago, and he’d wanted to _stay_ there. He’d thought about how safe he’d felt, how protected. And Snape had seen— _felt_ —all of it alongside him. No wonder Snape wasn’t saying anything. No wonder he was getting as far away from Harry as possible. The last thing Snape would want was a needy, clingy teenager who was becoming somehow attached to him. Some unhealthy product of his childhood, he figured Snape would say, that would cause him to cling to the first adult who gave him a hug. Not that it was a hug! Not at all a hug. But still.

He hadn’t even thought about how safe he felt around Snape these days, not consciously, not until now. And to his utter embarrassment, he realized that he _did_ feel safe. He didn’t used to. Over the past five years, he’d become so used to being worried about being cut up for potions ingredients or cursed into oblivion during Snape’s bouts of temper that he still thought the thoughts out of habit, even though he wasn’t literally worried about it happening anymore. He hadn’t even realized until this moment that little by little, his fear had been replaced by security. He’d been wrestling so much with the question of trust lately that he’d glossed over the fact that he already _did_ trust Snape. At least to some extent. Maybe even to a large extent.

Mind. Blown. Again.

Snape was back in front of him, waving a potions vial in front of his face. “Drink,” he instructed, voice inscrutable. He moved to the counter as soon as Harry accepted the vial.

He downed the liquid in the vial, not bothering to so much as look at it, grateful at least that it gave him something to do instead of looking at the professor. As much as he now had plenty of food for thought, his epiphany didn’t do a thing to erase his mortification. What must Snape think of him? He groaned as quietly as he could.

The fact that the room had become awkwardly silent made it worse, because it was painfully obvious that Snape had seen and felt the entire memory and that Harry had realized that he had. Snape was certainly, at the very least, unsettled by it. Or maybe he was trying to figure out how to extricate himself from Harry-sitting duties. Formulating a plan to get Dumbledore back here, to get away from Grimmauld Place after all.

“The mental acuity potion’s effects must be allowed to wear off naturally,” Snape’s even voice broke the silence, and Harry tried not to flinch. “The potion you just consumed will help with any lingering disorientation until then. If your senses waver in intensity as it wears off, lying down to rest will help.”

Harry nodded automatically. When Snape said nothing else, he darted his eyes to where the professor stood at the counter, eyes on the same book as earlier.

Harry cleared his throat. “That—that’s it, then? The lesson’s over?” He wasn’t an idiot. He knew Snape had planned on doing more with the sensory exercise but had been spooked into cutting it short.

“You have learned quite enough to fuel your practice,” Snape said neutrally, still not looking at him. “I expect you will now be better able to understand the concepts within your Occlumency book.”

“The dream worked then?”

“Yes,” Snape confirmed and didn’t even sound upset at being proven wrong. “It seems the nature of your dreams is as unusual as you asserted.”

Harry nodded again, though Snape wasn’t looking his way, and he pushed himself to his feet. The professor didn’t say more, and Harry knew a dismissal when he heard one. Still, he shifted from foot to foot in the middle of the room, reluctant to leave things like this. No matter the progress they’d made recently, it would be completely like Snape to go back to avoiding him just because he was uncomfortable with getting too close.

Well, screw that, he thought with a sudden spark of conviction. He may be mortified, and Snape may think him a wilting flower, but that didn’t mean he had to act like it. He’d made more progress in this one lesson with a Master Occlumens than he’d made over the past week on his own. And they were finally learning to trust each other, like Other Harry had told him they needed to do. So he was going to swallow his fear and humiliation, damn it, and Snape was going to get over his aversion to teenagers and Harry and being close to anything more human than a toad, and they were going to _work together_.

“Sir?” He squared his shoulders. Snape barely twitched, still reading. “Will you teach me again tomorrow?”

Snape’s head jerked up. He clearly hadn’t been expecting to be asked that after the mutually uncomfortable conclusion to their first lesson. His brows drew together, and Harry could have sworn he saw a flicker of fear. Harry didn’t dwell on it, just moved closer to head off any arguments. He could tell, with or without his Snape Mood Reading abilities, that Snape was about to come up with a very good excuse to refuse him.

“I need to learn,” Harry insisted, gripping the edge of the counter across from Snape, “And you’re a good teacher, when you want to be. Please.” He inserted authority into the word, not pleading, and he met Snape’s gaze steadily. He knew instinctively that Snape needed to know that Harry could stand on his own two feet emotionally, that he was grounded enough to not put too much weight on Snape’s willingness to teach him. Snape couldn’t do this unless he was allowed to keep some distance. Well, if he taught Harry what he needed to know, then Harry was perfectly willing to let him have it.

He knew the moment he’d won. Snape’s eyes lost their determined edge and he exhaled, long and slow. “Very well, Potter,” he said without emotion. “Tomorrow then.”

Harry knew better than to smile. He gave a single nod and made for the door before Snape could change his mind.

“And don’t be late again!” Snape called after him as he opened the door. “You may enjoy spending your days in endless teenaged monotony, but I do have valuable things to do with my time.”

Harry kept his back to Snape as he answered “yes, sir,” and closed the door behind him. He didn’t think it wise to show Snape the grin that was spreading across his face at the man’s expense. He’d been right about Snape needing to have distance, and he knew the parting words were the professor’s way of keeping that distance firmly in place.

He’d worry about how to navigate that later. He’d also have plenty of time to dwell on the embarrassment of the shared memory. For now, he’d push both obstacles out of his mind—he needed to practice directing his mind, anyway—and celebrate his victory. He was well on his way to learning Occlumency, and he was learning from the greatest Occlumens of his acquaintance. Soon he’d be in control of his mental connection to Voldemort, and maybe the discipline of his mind would even help him to sharpen whatever skills or advantage he could possibly have over the dark wizard.

And then _Voldemort_ had better be the one watching out for _Harry_.


	29. The Problem with Grown-Ups

Harry hadn’t thought the gloomy atmosphere around Grimmauld Place could get any worse, but with everything that had happened so far this summer, he was getting used to being proven wrong.

He first noticed that something was off during lunch the day before. He had just finished up his fourth day of Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape and was so exhausted that he thought about going straight to his room for a nap. Surely Dobby could be talked into bringing him a bite to eat later. But then Fred had been in his bedroom, looking suspicious and shifty. The older teen had been relieved when he saw that it was only Harry and had confided in him that he and George were days away from “the most magnificent invention we’ve ever dreamed up!” Harry might have been more excited for them had they not said that about the five previous inventions. Or had plumes of green smoke not been drifting toward the ceiling from above Harry’s own bed.

Deciding that the kitchen was probably safer than his bedroom for the time being, he joined the rest of the Weasleys and Hermione for lunch after all. Snape almost never ate in the kitchen now that the house was full, but the random Order member would occasionally pop in. This time he’d greeted Tonks and Moody before sitting down to chat with Hermione and Ginny.

The girls were the same as usual: at times giggling over shared jokes, at times subdued when the thought of Ron lay heavy over the table, and always curious about how Harry’s lessons had gone that day. Harry was flattered that they cared so much to ask and listen to what he was learning, but he supposed that they both—though Hermione especially—felt personally invested in his progress after having helped him before.

So he’d told them all about it. Well, all about the _Occlumency_. He didn’t tell them just how invasive the mind melding experience was, how even though Snape had said they couldn’t use the potion two days in a row, Harry was starting to forget what privacy felt like. He also didn’t tell them that he thought Snape was actually a good teacher when he wanted to be, which made it glaringly obvious how often he didn’t care to be. (Now that he was seeing this somewhat more patient, helpful side of Snape, Harry was tempted to try to figure out how to coax this side of his professor into coming out during the school year. It certainly would improve the mood in Gryffindor Tower on Potions class days if people were more interested in learning than afraid of being bodily thrown by Snape into their own boiling potions.)

He definitely didn’t tell them about the awkward moments he and Snape still had during the lessons or about how the professor was so obviously trying to keep him at arm’s length. He didn’t tell them about how it wasn’t completely working, about how close he was starting to feel to Snape after having shared thoughts and emotions so many times. Or that he wondered if it was the same for Snape, even if the man would rather die a horrible death involving hot coals and hungry, attacking Acromantulas before admitting to it.

What he did tell them was how he was getting better at grabbing hold of emotion and using it as a shield. He explained how Snape was teaching him to create and fortify a mental wall around his other emotions so that they couldn’t be detected, and how he could use the same tactic to hide memories that he didn’t want seen by a Legilimens. He also told them that Snape hadn’t attacked Harry’s mind like the year before. He’d given Harry fair warning that such lessons were inevitable, though the way he’d said it made it clear that he expected Dumbledore to take over by that point. Harry would need use of a wand for that, after all, so it would wait for the school year when the decree on underage magic no longer applied.

He’d been halfway through telling them about his latest lesson when he first noticed that something seemed…off with the adults. Tonks kept sneaking glances at him, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think there was pity or sorrow in her eyes. He had grown used to seeing those emotions in the eyes of visitors ever since Ron had been attacked, but he thought it odd that it was directed solely at him. Still, he shrugged it off and returned his attention to his tale of Occlumency successes and failures.

A few minutes later, he had caught Mr. Weasley and Moody looking at each other as if silently communicating something of great importance. Harry’s words had faltered at that, and he was at once certain that the adults were keeping something from the kids. Something _new_.

Was it about Ron?

That thought effectively broke his concentration and he stopped talking mid-sentence. Thankfully, the girls caught on pretty quickly at that point that something was amiss. They all three sat in silence, listening carefully to the conversations of the adults around the table.

But whatever the secret was, the adults were keeping it to themselves. They heard Moody and Mr. Weasley having a stilted conversation about the weather, improved security at Gringotts, and even the Chudley Cannons’ latest victory – even though it was obvious that Moody wasn’t even certain which sport they played. They heard Tonks awkwardly compliment Mrs. Weasley’s cooking…three times. They heard Mrs. Weasley’s distracted _thank you, dear_ s and saw her worried glances towards them when she realized that they were listening far too intently.

Ginny must have had enough after seeing that her own mother was hiding something from her. She interrupted everyone at the table with a loud, “Alright, what’s going on, then?”

The table fell silent. That is, it fell silent except for the sound of breaking glass when Tonks accidentally knocked her drinking glass from the table. “Sorry…so sorry,” she muttered as she waved her wand at the mess and it vanished with a whispered spell.

 _Then_ it fell silent.

The adults didn’t even try to hide the fact that they were hiding something, which Harry interpreted as a sign that whatever it was that they were hiding was too big or too awful to stay hidden from them for long.

His stomach started to clench up, and he wished he hadn’t eaten so much.

But apparently, not hiding that they were hiding something didn’t mean that they were going to share what it was. First Mrs. Weasley tut-tutted about how they were too young to know everything going on in the Order and to go on upstairs and if they needed to know anything, she would tell them.

When that was met with three protesting teenagers, Mr. Weasley cut in to order them to “listen to your mother…er, well, to Ginny’s mother,” but his heart wasn’t in the reprimand, so they felt free to ignore him.

Harry thought they were finally going to get some answers when Moody cut in with his opinion that “Potter’s got a right to know—” until Mrs. Weasley silenced him with a particularly furious glare. It was a very impressive glare, Harry had to admit. It hadn’t even been directed at Harry, and he’d cringed. It worked as intended, for Moody clammed right up. Harry could see he still thought Harry ought to know whatever was going on, but that Mrs. Weasley had won. They’d get no information from Moody. Harry was feeling downright irritated at Mrs. Weasley for trying to keep him in the dark. There was no use arguing with her, though. Once her mind was set…

He’d directed his gaze at Tonks then. She was younger and probably didn’t hold much sway with the others, but he thought he might be able to get her on their side through her sense of sympathy. Maybe he could even get her alone later and she might give them a hint…

Her sad smile and small shake of her head told him that that wasn’t going to happen.

“This is so not fair!” Ginny ranted. “We’re practically in the Order! Harry especially. We’re at headquarters, and my brother might never wake up, and an evil wizard is after _all_ of us, and _we deserve to know what’s going on_!” By the time she was finished, she was standing, leaning over the table, and aiming a rather impressive glare of her own at her mother. Harry left off whatever arguments he was about to come up with, deciding that she was doing just fine on her own.

Of course, it still didn’t work. Mrs. Weasley had passed that glaring ability down to her daughter, so it didn’t faze her in the slightest. She shooed all three of them out of the kitchen with a lecture about respecting one’s elders or some such nonsense, and then the three teenagers were fuming together in the drawing room.

They each tried throughout the rest of the day to find out what was going on, but they were ignored or put off. Moody and Tonks left shortly after lunch, but other Order members came and went throughout the day. None of them would say a word.

He wished Remus was there to ask, but his former professor hadn’t been by since the previous morning. Not that he was likely to tell Harry anything remotely tied to Order business anyway. He was like Mrs. Weasley in that regard. But at least Harry could try to guilt the man into it. It was worth a try.

He knew he stood a better chance with Snape. _He_ might tell him something. Maybe not everything, but the professor wasn’t a member of the _Harry Must Be Coddled_ club, so if there was anything that Harry could know without it putting anyone’s life in danger, Snape wasn’t as likely to keep it from him as the other adults in his life.

Only…Harry was trying to give Snape space. It wasn’t merely that the man needed some emotional distance from Harry. It was also that Snape had been tired even before they started Occlumency lessons, and he was looking more and more tired each lesson. It was tiring Harry out too, but he figured that the burden of constantly weaving in and out of someone else’s mind, experiencing another person’s emotions and memories over and over, not to mention having to be in control of the entire experience, must be taking a toll on the professor.

He’d thought that very morning about suggesting that they take a day off, but he was too afraid that if they stopped the lessons, they wouldn’t start up again. He’d never even outright asked the professor for more lessons after the second day. He’d simply shown up at the lab at the same time each morning and Snape had acted as if he’d been expected, and they’d had a lesson. Neither of them mentioned anything about starting up regular lessons again even though they’d fallen into doing just that.

So he spent the rest of that day in a gloomy, annoyed haze alongside the girls, especially after Fred and George attended an impromptu Order meeting and then promptly told them with somber faces that “we’d tell you if we could—“ “—but mum would have our heads.”

The rest of that day and breakfast the next morning passed with excruciating slowness, and Harry had never before waited with such anticipation for the chance to talk to Snape.

* * *

“You’re early.”

Snape blocked the doorway, so Harry shifted from one foot to another in the hallway and tried to look as if he hadn’t been awake half the night planning out how he’d get the professor to agree to answer a barrage of questions.

“Yeah?” He shrugged, trying to look casual. “I ate breakfast quickly. Hungry, I guess.”

“Ah. I suppose your sudden increase in appetite has nothing to do with desiring that I divulge all of the Order’s secrets to you.” Snape gave him his best knowing look.

Harry opened his mouth and promptly closed it. How did Snape _do_ that? They’d barely started to get along, and already he knew Harry all too well. He pursed his lips. “So…will you?” There was no point denying it.

Snape heaved an exasperated sigh and opened the door wider. Harry had no idea if that was a yes, but it certainly wasn’t a no. He quickly entered, perched himself on a stool, and watched Snape expectantly.

The professor leaned his back on the counter across from Harry and crossed his arms. He leveled a stern glare across the space. “Mr. Potter,” he clipped. “I am not a source of information for you to pick at anytime your curiosity gets the better of you. If other members of the Order refuse to tell you information, they no doubt have a very good reason to do so.”

“Not always,” Harry argued stubbornly. He dived right in, determined to make his case. “And anyway, it’s not the Order refusing to say anything. It’s Mrs. Weasley. She treats me like a kid because she wants me to _stay_ a kid. _Moody_ wanted to tell me. And you’ve told me things before too, so I know you think I’ve got a right to know when something’s going on that affects me.”

“And why would you imagine that recent Order business affects you?”

“Doesn’t it?” Harry tilted his head and raised his eyebrows deliberately. He thought it went without saying that most things going on with the war and Voldemort and the Order these days—the last several weeks, especially—affected him.

Snape tightened his lips, which Harry took as a yes.

He pushed his advantage. “Look, Mrs. Weasley’s feeling a bit protective right now, and I get that, with what happened to Ron. But Dumbledore put _you_ in charge of me, not her, right? I _know_ you can’t tell me secret plans or anything that could compromise the Order. I know I can’t know _everything_. But I’m old enough and _definitely_ involved enough that I shouldn’t be totally left in the dark.”

“And if you should dislike what you hear?” Snape asked as if he already knew the answer. “If someone you loved were in danger, for example. Would you partake in your typical Gryffindor tendencies to rush headlong into danger? Give yourself up to the Dark Lord, perhaps?”

“ _Is_ somebody I love in danger?” Harry asked, mouth suddenly dry.

Snape ignored the question to say imperiously, “The reason you are not told all there is to tell, Mr. Potter, is that you have shown yourself unable to control your impulses when you think that you know better than those who are older and wiser.”

“That’s not true!” Harry shook his head vigorously. “I always go to adults or professors when I can, just sometimes they’re not around!”

“Oh?” Snape asked in mock surprise. “So that is why you took it upon yourself to head to the Department of Mysteries _after_ having already alerted an Order member to your concerns?”

Harry glared, trying to decide if it was wise to argue that he hadn’t been certain of Snape’s allegiances at the time.

“And I suppose you did everything you could to find an adult when the Sorcerer’s Stone was endangered.”

“I did!” Harry insisted, again wondering if it was wise to say that he’d thought _Snape_ had been the one after the stone. “McGonagall didn’t do anything when we talked to her before, and in the end, there wasn’t anybody around to help us, or who would have believed us. We had no choice but to—”

“You were eleven! You went rushing headlong into danger, confronted a fully grown dark wizard, confronted the _Dark Lord himself!_ There are absolutely no circumstances that would justify eleven-year-olds doing such a thing in a castle full of professors! And don’t get me started on the _Basilisk_.”

“That was different! And anyway, Ron and I _did_ have a professor with us that time, remember?” Harry hotly pointed out.

“Oh, yes. Gilderoy Lockhart,” Snape sneered. “I know that you are not daft enough to have considered him more useful than a joke wand. Come to think of it, a Muggle stick would have been of more use to you than that buffoon.”

Harry smirked despite himself, knowing that whatever else he and Snape disagreed about, they shared the same opinion of Professor Lockhart. But he stayed on track, pointing out, “Well there’s no Chamber or Basilisk this time, right? And it’s not like I’m going to just up and leave, so I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“The big deal, _Potter_ ,” Snape spat, “is that you are headstrong and obstinate and I’ve no doubt you would find a way to do just that if properly provoked.”

Harry bristled. “What’s got you in a twist, anyway? I just want to know what’s going on. Why are you acting as if I’m planning some wild escape from Grimmauld Place?”

“ _You_ are the problem,” said Snape with more heat than Harry thought the conversation warranted. “You never ask for help—”

“I asked for your help with Occlumency!” Harry refuted.

“You never ask for help when in true peril,” Snape clarified without missing a beat. “When your life or your loved ones’ lives are at stake, you rush into action without _thinking_. You’ve nearly been killed how many times? And you never think to find an older, skilled wizard, someone in the know, an actual _adult_!”

“Yeah, well, since when have adults ever done anything for me?” Harry yelled and immediately wished he hadn’t. Snape wore a pinched expression and was already opening his mouth to no doubt refute that. He quickly added in a not-quite-yelling voice, “All I mean is…well…well…it’s true, isn’t it! You really think Vernon and Petunia would have ever done a thing to save my neck when they’d have been happier if I’d died? Did you know I tried to tell a teacher once about how things were there? I did, and it was the best day of my life when Mrs. Thornton believed me. I thought for sure I was going to get to live somewhere else, or at least there’d be somebody making sure the Dursleys were nicer to me. And then Petunia convinced her I was a liar, that I was making it up for attention. I got punished just for telling the truth, and all the teachers treated me like a juvenile delinquent after that. So, you know, it’s ridiculous to give me a hard time about not asking adults for help when I grew up knowing they never would!”

He thought Snape looked uncomfortable at the admission, as the man was stoically looking at the wall, not at Harry. He wasn’t sorry he’d said it though. He still got angry when he thought about that day in second grade, and in his mind, he was completely justified in asserting that most adults didn’t believe _him_ , so why should _he_ believe in _them_?

“And to be honest,” he added for good measure, “I haven’t seen a lot to change my mind since coming to Hogwarts!”

Snape let go of his discomfort at that, his eyes snapping to Harry’s. He was absolutely _seething._ “Oh, I suppose I’ve been twiddling my thumbs, not risking my own neck to save your miserable self every single year!”

“Well I didn’t _know_ that, did I?” Harry threw up his hands. “I didn’t know what your ploy was, but I thought you were pulling the wool over Dumbledore’s eyes! I was about ninety-nine percent sure you were working for You-Know-Who. I think you liked me thinking that too, don’t deny it! You liked knowing I was afraid of you.”

The gleam in Snape’s eyes was answer enough.

“And it’s not like I was going to cower in the corner, but I _was_ afraid of you!” He said accusingly. “Like I _really_ would have asked for your help last year if you hadn’t been the only one around! Seriously, using yourself as an example of how I should have learned to trust adults? It’s laughable!”

Snape’s nostrils flared but Harry figured he probably couldn’t deny the truth of that, for he switched course. “The headmaster has helped you on many occasions.”

“Yeah, and he’s also avoided me when I needed him most, ignored me when it suited him, treated me like a little kid instead of just telling me the truth about _my own life_ , about things I had a right to know! Not to mention, he’s the one who made me live with the Dursleys in the first place!” Harry felt a rush of shame for bringing that up. He’d forgiven Dumbledore for that, or tried at least, and he knew the headmaster hadn’t known how bad it was. But…it was still the truth. Just because it was forgiven didn’t mean it didn’t still sting.

“Black—”

“Did help me,” Harry admitted. “But he couldn’t do much, could he, forced to stay here like a criminal? And Azkaban messed with him, you know. He wanted his life back, before everything happened. He wanted my dad back, I think, but he got me instead, and he was even upset that I wasn’t more like James…” He cleared his throat, resisting the emotion that wanted to choke him at thoughts of Sirius. “Ironic, right?” he said with a sad smile, partly to distract himself. “You were angry with me for being like my dad, and Sirius was angry with me for _not_ being like him. I should have locked you two in a room and let you figure out who was right.” He frowned. “Wandless, of course. Otherwise it’d get messy.”

“It would have been messy regardless,” Snape said dryly. He looked away, and Harry couldn’t tell what the man was thinking, just that he seemed to have lost some of his steam. He finally sighed and surprised Harry by saying, “You are in some ways, you know. Just not in the ways I always thought.”

Harry frowned, confused. “Come again?”

“Like your father,” Snape clarified, still not looking at him, and Harry held his breath. It wasn’t very often that he got to hear people talk about his parents, and Snape didn’t look as if he was about to villainize James like he usually did. He looked as if maybe…maybe he was going to tell him something about him. Something _real_. But to his disappointment, Snape shook his head and his contemplative look slipped back into a sneer. “And I suppose you show the same level of ingratitude toward Lupin, after all he has done for you.”

“Remus…” Harry faltered, really wishing that Snape had said whatever he’d been thinking about saying about Harry’s dad. But old habits die hard, he supposed. Snape had lived his whole life only saying negative things about James Potter. He wasn’t likely to change his tune just because Harry wished it. “Remus, um, tries, I think. But his heart isn’t in it. I mean, it is…but it isn’t.” He shrugged, giving up on explaining it in a way that made sense. “He helped when I begged him to. Then he disappeared from my life. Now he’s back, and I know he cares, and I love him, I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go to him for every little thing. He’s got better things to do—”

“Every little thing?” Snape hissed. “We are not talking about who you go to when you skin a knee. Not that you do that either,” he added darkly. “We are talking about what you do in life or death situations!”

“Well, I don’t go to Remus, alright?”

“You don’t go to _anyone_. That is the _point_!”

“What does it _matter_?” Harry jumped to his feet to stare at Snape face to face, even though he had to look up to do it. “What aren’t you telling me? What’s so awful about whatever the Order’s keeping from me that you’re suddenly harping on me about life and death situations and asking for help and trusting adults? What. Is. Going. On?”

Snape ignored his questions to ask, “What is your word worth, Mr. Potter?”

“Wha— Huh?”

“What is your word worth?” he repeated

“I don’t understand.”

“What value do you place on your word? It is a simple question. If I ask you to make me a promise, how likely are you to keep it?”

Harry was taken aback by the random question. He was also alarmed. What in the world was going on that Snape needed him to promise to something?

“I require an answer,” Snape prodded.

“I…” Harry thought about it. _Would_ he keep his word? Honesty was important to him, but what if he promised something that he regretted or that was impossible to follow through on? “Why do you want to know?” he asked, his muscles tensing up.

“Would you keep a promise? Yes or no.”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly. And he _didn’t_ know. He wanted to say that he would keep a promise, but he knew that if something happened and he thought he needed to break a promise for a really good reason, he probably would.

Snape sighed, long and slow, and ran a hand through his hair. “I thought not.”

It was kind of weird, this feeling that he was letting Snape down. He’d never cared about that before, and he hadn’t thought it would make his chest feel sore. He rubbed a spot above his heart.

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?” he asked miserably, resigned to being kept in the dark.

Snape looked at him in silence for a few moments and Harry held his breath. He finally said, “I know you, Potter. I need assurances that if I tell you what is troubling the Order, you will not run headlong into danger like you always do.”

Harry felt a touch of nausea at the thought of what could be so serious that Snape would be worried about him losing all sense over it. “I _can_ promise,” he offered. “I can promise that I won’t do anything rash, or that I’ll at least find help before I do. I just…don’t want to lie. What if something unexpected happens or there’s nobody around and I have no choice? Are you going to hold me to it then?”

Snape looked him in the eyes and slowly nodded his head. “I will accept that, Potter, so long as you understand that if you embrace any foolish or reckless action whatsoever without it being the last resort—by my standards, not yours—and assuming you survive the experience, I will not hesitate to assign you detentions every single evening for the rest of your Hogwarts career. _Especially_ during Quidditch matches.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Out of any other professor’s mouth, he would have thought they were exaggerating or even halfway joking. Judging by Snape’s stone face, he was deadly serious, at least about the Quidditch part. He jerkily nodded his head, knowing the professor had found a really good threat to keep him in line.

“Sit,” Snape instructed, and Harry immediately sat. He nervously fiddled with the hem of his shirt while Snape brought a stool and sat facing him. “An Order member is missing,” the professor began, watching him intently. “It came to our attention when he missed an important communication yesterday. His home appears to have been ransacked, and there is no trace of him.”

“Who?” Harry whispered, knowing that Snape wouldn’t have been worried about his reaction over just anybody.

He guessed the answer a split second before Snape said, “Lupin.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face and the ache in his chest worsened. He took a shaky breath. Remus. Of course it was Remus. Because who in his life would actually be left alone?

“Was it Vol— You-Know-Who?” He hated that his voice shook.

“That is the most likely conclusion,” Snape quietly confirmed. “But we do not know for certain.”

Harry shook his head. “No. No, no, no,” he denied automatically. “He’s an Order member, he’s a really good dueler, he’s a _werewolf!_ He wouldn’t be taken easily. He probably fought back and is just hiding out, or maybe injured.” He raised frantic eyes to Snape. “What if he’s injured somewhere? We need to—”

Snape stopped him with a sharp swipe of his hand in the air. “Remember your promise, Potter,” he said sharply. “ _We_ do not need to do anything.”

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. It didn’t work. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“Possibly.” Snape didn’t pretend to misunderstand his meaning. “The Dark Lord may have learned of Lupin’s connection to you through any number of avenues and decided to capture him for information. _Or_ he could have been after an Order member in general. Or he could have simply wanted a werewolf for some reason. We also do not yet know that the Dark Lord is the one who has him. It is best not to jump to conclusions.”

How could he _not_ jump to conclusions? They were in the middle of a war, and Voldemort was actively trying to find him, and it wasn’t likely that the people he was close to were becoming targets through _coincidence_. Studying Snape’s face, he knew that despite his words of caution, the professor also believed it to be Voldemort’s doing.

“It’s not fair!” He jumped up from his chair. He felt like punching something but there was nothing around to punch, not unless he wanted Snape to go ahead and enact that lifetime ban on Quidditch. So he paced the room with quick, angry strides. “First Mrs. Figg, then Ron, now Remus! Why won’t he just leave them all _alone!_ ”

“He wants you, and he will go to any lengths to get what he wants,” Snape answered unhelpfully.

Harry stopped his pacing. “Maybe if we listen to my vision’s warnings, think about that plan—”

The fierce blaze of anger in Snape’s eyes was enough to cut off his words this time. The professor stood and grasped his shoulders with both hands so that Harry had no choice but to look at him with wide eyes. “Were you listening to me? No rash plans! No actions that will only serve to get you killed.”

“He could be killing _Remus_ right now!”

“If that is the case, then getting yourself killed will not help him!”

Harry was mortified when he felt tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. He broke away from Snape’s grasp and hastily wiped them away. “Maybe…maybe I could try to reach into You-Know-Who’s mind. Find out if he’s got Remus, where he’s keeping him.”

“And have you ever done such a thing before?” Snape asked in a deceptively reasonable tone. Harry knew that tone. It was the _humor Potter until he sees how foolish he’s being_ tone.

“No,” he admitted anyway. “And no, I don’t know how to do it. But you’re a Legilimens, and I’ve got the connection to his mind. Together we could come up with something to at least try?” He looked at the professor hopefully.

“You have no idea how dangerous such a thing would be,” said Snape, twisting his lips in scorn. “Legilimency is not an easy skill, not one to take lightly. Even if your connection with the Dark Lord were normal—which it decidedly is not—you could not possibly learn such a skill in so quick a time. Not without doing potential damage to your own mind. Even if you _were_ by some miracle successful, you would not be able to reach into his mind without his feeling your presence.”

“I’ve done it before, lots of times,” he argued.

“Not with intent!” Snape hissed. “Accidentally slipping into his mind while his defenses are lowered by his emotional state, seeing snatches of whatever is at the forefront of the Dark Lord’s mind at that particular moment, is completely different than what you suggest! You would need to not only learn how to operate the connection—a daunting feat in itself—but then slip into his mind while it is _not_ vulnerable and purposely search through his mental fortifications for information or relevant memories. It would require a level of skill that I am not certain even _I_ possess to direct your mind over such a distance and hold the connection open while he, an incredibly skilled Occlumens and Legilimens, will be simultaneously forcing you out and attempting to do untold harm to your mind. You could be a vegetable by the time it was over!”

Harry stared open-mouthed for a second before he lamely said, “Oh.” Put that way, it didn’t sound like such a great plan after all.

“Yes. _Oh,_ ” Snape mocked. “This mental connection you possess with the Dark Lord _might_ serve a more useful purpose in the future, but until you learn to control and strengthen your own mind through _years_ of study and practice, you are forbidden from attempting anything so foolish!”

“Okay.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Snape repeated with narrowed eyes as if dissecting the word for hidden meaning. “Just…okay?”

Harry sighed and ran a still shaky hand through his hair. “You’re the mental expert. I believe you when you say I can’t do that yet.”

Snape studied him suspiciously, clearly surprised at Harry’s easy agreement and not quite trusting it.

Harry huffed a short laugh through his frazzled nerves. “I’m not planning some secret revolt, professor. I won’t try to do anything with my mental connection to Voldemort—” he cringed when Snape gave a barely perceptible flinch and quickly said, “Sorry. It slipped out, I didn’t mean—” Snape impatiently waved off his apology but Harry felt bad. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the hint of pain in the tight lines in his professor’s face. He let out a long breath, continuing more carefully. “I believe you, that’s all I meant. If you say I can’t do that, I trust you to know what you’re talking about.”

When Snape still stared at him like he was waiting to be told the truth, Harry smirked and said, “Times change, professor. We’re not mortal enemies anymore, and I might actually listen to you sometimes. Get used to it.”

“Indeed,” Snape said and cleared his throat. “Well then. What other schemes must I talk you out of? I’d prefer to press this advantage for as long as it lasts.”

Harry plopped himself back onto the stool, defeated. “Do you have any idea how _frustrating_ it is to be told to just wait and do _nothing_?”

“Yes. I do,” Snape answered matter-of-factly, which gave Harry food for thought. Of course Snape, the spy who could no longer spy, knew the frustration of having to unwillingly sit on the sidelines. He probably felt it even more acutely than Harry did, having had so pivotal a role before being benched, so to speak. He didn’t know why this empathetic insight about Snape was calming him, only that it didn’t feel quite so irksome being bossed around by an adult who could actually understand his frustration.

He wondered if Snape could understand it completely though. Did the moody, cynical professor even have anybody in his life whom he loved, or even cared about? The man understood wanting to help and being unable to, sure, but did he understand how much worse it made things when the life of a friend or loved one was on the line? How much it made the skin crawl to know that that someone could be dying, how much it made the heart pound and every nerve twitch with the impulse to _do_ something about it?

Not that he would ever ask such a thing. There were personal questions, and then there were _personal_ questions, and Harry didn’t think that them being ‘not mortal enemies anymore’ was quite close enough for him to get away with asking the latter kind of question.

“Just tell me if there’s anything that I _can_ do,” he finally said.

“You can be prepared, as the Dark Lord will continue his search for you. You can be on guard should he come closer than he has.”

“For _Remus._ You know I meant if there’s anything I can do for Remus.”

“You can trust that he is a skilled and intelligent man who can take care of himself. If he can do anything to escape his current situation, he will.”

Harry squinted at the professor. “You really think he’s skilled and intelligent? I mean, _I_ know he is, but I thought you hated him.”

“I dislike him immensely.” Snape wrinkled his nose as if to get rid of a bad smell. “That does not mean that I do not see qualities in him that would serve him well when faced with such a situation as this.”

Harry nodded distractedly, eyes back on his hands. He willed them to stop shaking. “Be honest. What are his chances?” He felt the tears welling up again and held them back through sheer willpower.

Snape hesitated, then said, “It depends. _If_ the Dark Lord is behind this, and if what he wants is information, then Lupin is undoubtedly still alive.”

“You were sure he’d kill Mrs. Figg the first day,” Harry whispered, afraid that if he spoke louder, his voice would crack.

Snape shook his head. “If the Dark Lord went to the trouble to capture Lupin due to his connection to you, he will have beforehand discovered not only that he is closer to you than she was, but that he is more intricately involved with the Order and therefore has more information of value. He also will view Lupin as more difficult to break due to his werewolf qualities. The Dark Lord will keep him alive long enough to satisfy himself either that he has given up all that he knows or that his mind is too strong ever to do so.”

“Will he Legilimize him?” Harry asked, alarmed, when the thought occurred to him.

“Possibly but not likely. He uses Legilimency only occasionally and somewhat unpredictably. He holds to ridiculously arbitrary standards, refusing to defile himself by Legilimizing a Muggle or a Squib, and yet has done so nonetheless when it suits him. It is likely he will view a werewolf’s mind with similar disdain. _However_ , as one cannot share a location protected by the Secret-Keeper spell even through the mental arts, he will be unable to find you through that method.”

“What if he finds out Remus can’t tell him where I am? That he’s of no use to him?” Harry swallowed the urge to panic.

Snape shook his head again. “The Dark Lord is not a fool. He certainly already knows that something akin to the Secret-Keeper spell is in effect. There are plenty of other details he can glean from Lupin that he believes will help him.”

“So he’s going to torture him. To find me.” The horror was only now hitting him. He’d felt terror and worry before, but now…he was horrified. He felt for a moment as if he would be sick.

“Stop,” Snape commanded in such a stern tone that Harry tried to obey. “You can do nothing for him by blaming yourself. Now that you know what is going on, I expect you to stay here, stay safe, and trust that the Order is doing everything in its power to find him.”

Harry nodded automatically. He was losing the battle with his tears, he could tell. Any second the dam was going to break again. “Why did you decide to tell me?” he asked.

“Because you are incorrigible,” Snape snorted and recrossed his arms. “You dig until you find answers. It is best that you hear the answers from someone who will provide complete, accurate information and prevent you from instantly running headlong into trouble.” He paused. “Besides that, while you may still be a child, you will not be for much longer. You must learn sooner rather than later how to respond appropriately to such situations.”

They sat in silence for a full minute, Harry trying to rein in his emotions and Snape letting him.

“Thank you,” Harry said finally. “It’s hard to know, but I’m glad you told me.”

Snape gave a sharp nod and carried his stool back to the counter. He apparently deemed Harry’s thanks as the conclusion of their conversation, for he said, “No Occlumency today, I think.”

“No,” agreed Harry. That would be a disaster, with the state his mind was in right now.

“I will inform Mrs. Weasley of our chat. You can be reassured that _I_ will be the object of her ire,” he said dryly. He didn’t sound as if he minded Mrs. Weasley’s ire in the slightest.

Harry smiled even as he silently allowed a few tears to fall. Of course Snape would be one of the few men in the world who wasn’t intimidated by Mrs. Weasley’s masterful glare.

Snape was setting up his potions counter, no doubt preparing to do some brewing, and Harry was thankful that he was letting him leave in his own time. He didn’t really want to, not yet. If he left this room, he would run into too many faces. Most knew about Remus and hadn’t told him, and two didn’t know and would want to be told. Couldn’t he hide out for a little while longer?

He peeked at Snape. The professor was paying him no mind, which suited him just fine, as he kept having to wipe those pesky tear tracks away.

“Can I stay?” he asked on a whim. “Maybe…maybe I can help you chop up some potions ingredients or something?”

Snape studied him without expression for a few seconds before gesturing to the Harry’s usual table. “I need twelve sliced caterpillars and three chopped sprigs of lavender to start.”

Harry swiped at his cheeks one more time and gratefully grabbed the ingredients and knives to set up his station. If he was going to keep his promise to not make a doomed rescue attempt, he would need something to keep his mind occupied. Chopping potions ingredients with enough precision to please Snape’s exacting standards would do nicely.

He chopped and Snape clinked and stirred, neither breaking the otherwise somber silence for the rest of the morning. He found himself wishing that his mind could be as silent, for despite his promise to Snape, it was sifting through idea after idea for how he might possibly be able to help the Order locate Remus. The upside of thinking about ways to get around his promise to Snape was that he could put off acknowledging that feeling in the pit of his stomach that kept insisting that this was all his fault.

Mrs. Figg. Ron. Remus. Who would be the next to be sacrificed in Voldemort’s quest to find Harry?

 _No one_ , he resolved.

He would keep his promise about Remus, he decided. But once they got Remus back (and they _would_ get him back), he was going to get Snape to listen to him about Other Harry’s warning. And maybe by then Dumbledore would be back, and they were going to come up with a plan, and if the professors wouldn’t help him, then he’d do something about it on his own. He didn’t know what yet, but he’d figure something out. He always did.

Or maybe he’d be pleasantly surprised and the adults would come through for him. He doubted it, but stranger things could happen. After all, with everything that had happened so far this summer, he was getting used to being proven wrong.


	30. Breaking Down Walls

“Concentrate!”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder.”

“Gee, thanks, I didn’t think of doing that!” Harry probably should have skipped the sarcasm, but he was too frustrated to care. Snape had melded with his mind over and over, and each time Harry had been unable to fully focus on fortifying his mental wall, and now he was tired and hungry and downright irritated, both with himself and with Snape. The professor was just so _exacting_ and _impatient_.

“I am in your _head_ , Potter,” Snape snapped. “You may wish to wait until a more appropriate moment to disrespect me with your thoughts!”

_And rude and picky and a total slave-driver_ , he thought as clearly as possible.

Snape abruptly let go of his wrists and withdrew his mind from Harry’s. The resulting disorientation was unwelcome, but Harry had become accustomed enough to the potion’s effects that it didn’t overwhelm him for more than a few seconds.

“This is not difficult!” Snape glowered at him. “You did better in your first attempt _days_ ago than you are doing right now. Your mental wall is no stronger than a pile of twigs!”

Harry crossed his arms. “I’m not messing it up on purpose, you know! It’s _hard_.”

“As all worthy skills are at first. But if you do not want your most vulnerable thoughts or memories read like a book, you will focus on fortifying your mental wall!”

“I know. I’m _trying_ ,” Harry repeated, irritated.

“You’re distracted.”

Harry gave him a look that he hoped adequately conveyed the word _duh._ It had been three days since Remus had gone missing, after all. In the two days since Harry had found out about it, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on much else. Snape had cut short yesterday’s Occlumency lesson due to Harry’s distraction, but he wasn’t being nearly as understanding today.

“If you cannot learn to focus while under stress or duress, then you will never properly learn the skills needed to Occlude!”

“I _know_ ,” he said crossly. “But _knowing_ it doesn’t make it any _easier_.”

Snape let out a breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Again. This time when I exert pressure on your mental wall, do not allow it to cave like a stack of children’s blocks.”

Harry wanted to grumble about where he could put his _children’s blocks_ , but the professor was already grasping his wrists—more forcefully than Harry thought necessary—and was preparing to reenter his mind. Harry took a deep breath, trying to clear it of all traces of irritation. _Trying_ being the operative word.

The last time they’d melded minds, Snape had taken their connection beyond mere observation. Now he was actively engaging with Harry’s mind, attempting to grasp at thoughts and memories outside of his immediate, conscious thought. He’d taken it slow, letting Harry figure out how to block his attempts. This time Harry was supposed to prevent him from being able to access his subconscious by building up a “wall” made up of innocuous thoughts and emotions. He’d learn how to make the metaphorical wall invisible later, Snape had explained. For now, he just needed to build the wall and keep it standing.

Easier said than done, he’d quickly found out. Especially when he was distracted by thoughts of whether one Remus Lupin was alive or dead.

Snape gave him less than a minute to prepare this time before he began to attack the wall. Harry audibly grunted at the forceful push against his defenses. He knew Snape was still taking it easy on him, but he hadn’t even been ready that time!

_Then get ready_ , flowed Snape’s words through his mind.

Knowing he’d get no mercy this time, he concentrated on packing the wall full of memories—the first time he rode a broom, breakfast in the Great Hall with his friends, practicing spells in Charms—and emotions—elation, happiness, determination. He focused his mind on those thoughts and those thoughts alone, imagining them weaving together like he’d seen Snape do in his own mind until they seemed to form a barrier between his conscious and subconscious thoughts.

As soon as it was in place, Snape attacked again. He immediately found a weak spot, and Harry found himself awash in memories— _he was walking through the park near Privet Drive…he was skipping a rock into the Great Lake…he and Ron were furiously cramming for their History of Magic exam_. He tried to reel them back in, prevent Snape from gaining access to any more memories, but more trickled past: _he was watching Dudley ride his new birthday bicycle…Fang licked him full in the face…he was practicing for a Quidditch match against Ravenclaw_.

Snape pulled back and the memories stopped. “That was pathetic,” he said aloud.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, keeping his eyes closed. “I was _trying_ ,” he said yet again, even more frustrated than before.

“Trying?” Snape sneered. “You practically invited me to access your memories. I didn’t even delve deeply into your mind, merely skimmed a few innocuous memories off the surface of your subconscious. I’d wager you would give it a halfway decent attempt if I had attempted to access your more closely guarded secrets.”

Harry’s blood ran cold, and he forced himself not to think of any of the memories or thoughts that he specifically did not want Snape to see.

“Yeah, let’s not do that,” he said quickly.

“Then _block_ me. Put in an adequate amount of effort this time, and I will not be forced to dig deeper into your subconscious.”

Harry focused on his wall to keep himself from sighing or grumbling or thinking of any thoughts that would annoy Snape any more than he already was. He ran through a few memories and emotions again in his mind, imagining the threads binding, the cracks fusing together, until the wall seemed strong and secure. Snape attacked just as firmly, and Harry managed to hold him off this time. He raised a mental fist in celebration…and then another spot was attacked, and Harry’s wall seemed to fold in on itself. All at once, _he was laid up in the hospital wing with a broken arm…then he was running through Hogwarts trying to get to Divination on time_ —

The memory cut off abruptly as Snape let go of the mental cord. “I did not even exert a fraction of the strength of which I am capable of exerting, Potter. _Do_ something to stop me!”

Harry didn’t bother insisting that he was trying that time. He just clenched his lips together and started again. Oh, but he would _fume_ about this later.

“As will I, if you don’t begin to actually block me!” Snape snapped.

He held him off through three attacks this time, but Harry wasn’t sure if he should celebrate, for Snape seemed to have gone for the strongest spots first. He found a crack in Harry’s defenses before long, and the memories began to flow.

“Stop me!”

“That’s what I’m _trying_ to do!”

Then he felt a more forceful push on his mind, and a new set of memories came forth. _He was opening a Christmas present from his relatives—a toothpick…he was hearing his name called after it came out of the Goblet of Fire, stunned and confused…Vernon was lecturing him about getting his chores done, threatening him with an “or else!”…Petunia lifted a frying pan—_

“Stop it!” he yelled. “Get out of my mind!”

“ _You_ stop it,” answered Snape. “Stop _me_ , as you’re supposed to be doing!”

_The frying pan grazed the side of his head as he dodged and made it out the back door to the sound of Petunia’s shrieks…he was furiously pulling weeds, trying to ignore the blisters on his hands._ Harry attempted to shove Snape’s mind away from the cracks in his wall, tried to patch them up with memories of school and Quidditch and his friends, but Snape was gaining ground. He felt another push against his mind, and he felt frozen in horror at his inability to do anything about it.

_Ron’s lifeless body came through the floo of Grimmauld Place…”Kill the spare,” he heard and Cedric lay dead at his feet…He lay on the ground next to a broken ladder and stared up at the Dursleys’ roof, the wind knocked out of him..._ Snape’s mind faltered and Harry tried to use it to his advantage, pushing against the invading mind, but he barely gained ground before it rebounded and delved deeper.

_Professor Umbridge was staring at him with a smarmy smile and he felt a shiver of fear mixed with revulsion wash down his spine…he snagged a piece of candy from the pantry, hiding it before Petunia could see…he watched through the crack from his cupboard as Dudley opened present after present, wishing he could at least sit by the Christmas tree this time…he was hot, and the teacher asked why he was wearing a sweater; he lied and said he was cold…Vernon grabbed him by his already bruised arm, spittle flying from his lips, he was so angry, and—_

“Get OUT!” he yelled, pushing against Snape’s mind, but the presence barely budged.

_—and with a push, Harry felt his feet fly out from under him, the stairs wavering in his vision…_

Harry tried to wrench his hands free of Snape’s but the man held his wrists with a vice grip.

_“St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys,” Vernon was saying, and the neighbor lady looked at Harry as if he were plotting to kill her cat…Petunia screeched as he tried to swipe a slice of Dudley’s birthday cake…Dudley laughed with his friends: “Leave him! Maybe he’ll freeze to death,” and Harry started crying, his bare feet numb in the snow._

“GET OUT!” Harry screamed and pushed with all his might, a wall of emotion rising like a whirlwind, up and out with a burst of force, and…it worked. Too well.

He felt a great push, and an array of images that were not his own rushed through his mind. _A pale, dark-haired boy was watching from behind a bush as a pair of children played…The boy was hiding, crying, as a man stumbled around calling for him…The man was screaming at him, telling him he’d never amount to anything…_

Harry’s arms were abruptly released, and he fell backwards from the shock of their minds separating so suddenly. He caught himself with an elbow and groaned. He was going to have a bruise there later. He looked wide-eyed at Snape. The man was breathing heavily, holding his own head in one hand.

He almost asked if he had hurt him, rebounding into his mind like that, but he stopped himself with a rush of anger. So what if he had? It was Snape’s fault it had happened in the first place! And the _things_ he had seen! Harry might have been embarrassed if he hadn’t been so _angry_. He abruptly scrambled away from Snape, which was difficult when a wave of dizziness fell over him. As soon as he could, he got to his feet and ran to the door. He tried to wrench it open but it wouldn’t budge.

“Let me out!” he yelled. It wasn’t locked; Snape must have spelled it shut.

“No.”

He whirled around. “You had no right! Those are _my_ memories, and you had no right to go poring over them like your own personal film show!”

“If you didn’t want me to view them,” Snape bit out, “then you should have stopped me from doing so!”

“You knew I couldn’t!”

“You _could_ have. You chose not to try hard enough.”

Harry gaped. “ _Chose?_ I _chose_ to let you invade my privacy like that?”

“You chose to block me when it mattered enough to you to do so, didn’t you?” the professor yelled right back, getting to his feet.

“Oh, so I’m supposed to _thank_ you now?”

“As I am certain that is too much to ask, how about we get to the part where you lied to the headmaster?” Snape’s expression had turned thunderous, and that made Harry all the more incensed. _Harry_ was the one with the right to be angry in this situation, not Snape!

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said, indignant. “Lied to him about what?”

“You told him that you had nothing more to confide about your childhood, _strongly_ implied to him that he knew all there was to know!”

Harry huffed. “What, did you expect me to tell him about every last memory? That would take a lifetime! He already knows the gist of it. There _wasn’t_ anything more to tell.”

“They tried to _kill_ you!”

Harry stared open-mouthed. “What?” he finally asked, so incredulous that he momentarily forgot to be angry. “Of course they didn’t. Well, I mean, they weren’t too careful sometimes with making sure I was okay, and they could have fed me more, and…well, to be honest, they probably wouldn’t have _minded_ if I’d died, but—”

“Your uncle pushed you down a flight of stairs!”

It took Harry a moment to pull up the memory. “Oh. That.”

“Yes. _That!_ ”

Harry frowned, trying to remember just what Snape had seen. “Well…you didn’t see the full memory. I mean, I did kind of fall down the stairs, but I wasn’t hurt all that badly, just a few bruises, maybe a sprain. I think my accidental magic kicked in, made it sort of a…er, soft bounce.”

Snape stared at him incredulously.

“I was fine,” he insisted. “I don’t think he meant to do it anyway. He was just being a bully, like usual, and he didn’t notice how close we were to the stairs.”

“You were a _child._ He pushed you down the _stairs,_ ” Snape repeated as if trying to get a simple concept through to a thick head.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He’d been seven at the time, and he’d been scared out of his wits, but he didn’t feel the need to confide that part to Snape. Although…truthfully, Snape probably already knew. He thought Snape might have been able to feel his emotional states, so intense were shared memories with the mind meld. He’d felt _Snape’s_ memories so vividly, after all. The longing as he’d watched the children play, the fear when he’d hid from the man and the loathing when the man was yelling. Now, thinking of it, he desperately wanted to ask if that was Snape’s father…wanted to know if Snape too knew what it was like to have been raised by a bully.

He’d probably hold onto that question until that vein in Snape’s forehead stopped twitching.

Snape wasn’t done anyway. “A fall like that could have killed you—probably _would_ have, had you not been a wizard.” He didn’t let Harry answer before he yelled, “And who forces a five-year-old to work on a roof with no supervision and a faulty ladder?”

“I was eight,” he pointed out but from Snape’s look, he didn’t think that fact had helped matters.

“So you _were_ forced to perform chores on the roof of your house with no supervision and a faulty ladder? At _eight?_ ”

“Well. Yeah?” Harry admitted, though he didn’t see how that was as awful as the stairs. After all, “I’d cleaned the gutters before. I’ve got pretty good balance.”

“Until the day you fell,” Snape sneered. “You could have killed yourself in a fall like that.”

“Or I could have killed myself falling out of a tree house, like a normal kid,” he pointed out. “I don’t get why you’re so upset about me not telling Dumbledore about every little—”

“And how old were you when they intentionally left you outside, barefoot and clothed in rags, on a cold and snowy evening?”

“Um, six,” he admitted. “But that was Dudley and his friends. I think Vernon and Petunia thought I was still locked in my cupboard.”

Snape’s face tightened, and again, he had the feeling he hadn’t said the right thing.

“I was fine though,” he pointed out. “I must have done accidental magic that time too, because I woke up nice and toasty warm in the shed next morning.”

Snape scowled and shook his head, then said accusingly, “You stated that your uncle rarely hit you. You implied that the physical abuse was limited to that and a bit of rough handling.”

“Um, yeah..?” Harry had no idea why he was being interrogated about this, and no idea what the right answer was. “What else do you think happened?” he asked nervously.

“You dodged that frying pan a little too well for it to have been the first time it was aimed at your head,” Snape enunciated slowly as if he were slow on the uptake.

Harry bristled. “She’s never caught me with it. Never more than a graze, anyway.”

Snape threw up his hands. “They’ve made a habit of aiming metal objects at your head, put you in dangerous and unsupervised situations at an incredibly young age, locked you out _all night_ in freezing temperatures, and oh, yes, _thrown you down a flight of stairs_. And all you can think to volunteer to the headmaster is that you slept in cramped quarters and missed a few meals?”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“Merlin knows what else they’ve done, how many other memories you’ve locked away in there that I’ve yet to view!”

Harry instinctively took a step back.

Snape gave him a long-suffering look. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve seen quite enough.” He shook his head and stalked toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

He placed his hand on the knob. “To fire-call Dumbledore.”

“Wait. What? Why?”

“Because abuse is one thing. _Attempted murder_ is quite another,” he hissed.

“You’re making it sound worse than it was,” Harry accused. “I’m the first to say the Dursleys are awful people, but you’re blowing those memories way out of proportion!”

“Why are you protecting them?” Snape rounded on him. “They have done _nothing_ for you. Nothing! And here you are, trying to defend their reprehensible actions.”

“I wasn’t _defending_ them!” Harry recoiled. “I just told you they’re—”

“Awful people, yes, I know. Hence the repeated attempts _on your life_ ,” Snape said impatiently. “So then why sugarcoat what they did to you?”

Harry pursed his lips. He wasn’t trying to defend _them_ , to be honest. He felt the need to defend _himself_. He wasn’t some poor little kid who could be tossed out in the snow or thrown down a flight of stairs. He wasn’t _weak_ , not like that made him sound, and the last thing he wanted was for Snape to see him that way.

But he couldn’t say that, so, “They’re…family?” he said lamely, not meeting Snape’s eyes.

“Being _family_ ,” Snape spat the word as if it were vile, “does not give them license to egregiously abuse a child under their care. You may not care for the headmaster to know all of the particulars, but as the adult most responsible for seeing to your wellbeing over the next several years, he should know _these_ particulars!”

“I don’t see why!” he shot back. “It’s _my_ business, _my_ memories! _I s_ hould get to decide who knows about them!”

Snape didn’t reply to that, just turned the knob.

“So I suppose you told Dumbledore all about _your_ family, then!” Harry yelled, his self-preservation going on holiday. Still, he knew as soon as he’d spoken the words that he’d crossed a line.

“ _What?_ ” Snape whispered in his second most dangerous tone. (Yes, Harry had begun to categorize Snape’s tones.) The professor’s face was pinched, his lips a white line, and Harry wondered if he should back away slowly or try to get around him to escape into the hallway. It _definitely_ was not a good idea to dig in his heels and keep going.

So of course, that’s what he did.

“You know what it’s like to be raised by a bully, don’t you?” Harry plowed on, trying to temper his tone. He wasn’t going to get away with this no matter what, but he might still be alive at the end of the day if he sounded marginally reasonable rather than accusing. “Your childhood wasn’t a bed of roses either, was it, and I bet _you_ didn’t go whining about it to Dumbledore.”

Snape was trying to decide whether to murder him. Okay, so Harry wasn’t a Legilimens, but he was pretty sure that’s what he would see if he could look inside Snape’s head. That vein in his forehead was way beyond twitching and now looked ready to pop. And those white lips were too tightly clenched for him to say anything just yet. Harry couldn’t help but wonder just how talented the professor was at nonverbal spells. He brushed his hand against the wand he held up his sleeve, comforted by its presence. Snape wouldn’t _really_ kill him, he knew by now. But the man still had a nasty temper. He wasn’t above a hex or two.

“What,” Snape finally hissed, making no move to move away from the door, “could _possibly_ make you think that you have the right to question me about such matters?”

“I could ask you the same! What happened to me has nothing to do with you—”

“I am an adult and your _professor_ , Potter!” he spat. “I have _every_ right, as _your teacher_ and as someone tasked with your safety by the leader of the Order of the Phoenix himself, to concern myself with such things. I have a _duty_ , in fact, to alert the headmaster to anything that could compromise your physical or mental safety. You have no such duty to me. _And so_ ,” he said slowly and deliberately, “you will keep your impertinent questions and observations to yourself. You will respect my privacy. You will not comment on anything you see inside my mind during these exercises, you will not share it with anyone outside this room, and you will not question me over things that are of no concern to you. And if you fail to heed me in any one of these points,” he hissed, his eyes narrowed into black slits, “then we. Are. Done. _Do you understand?_ ”

Harry nodded automatically, eyes wide as the full weight of the man’s threatening stance finally got through to him. That, and his scar was starting to twinge. He probably ought to mention that…

Snape didn’t say another word before sweeping from the room and shutting the door firmly behind him.

Harry let out a weary breath and sank to the floor. He was quite suddenly overwhelmingly _tired._ He’d been trying all week to learn Occlumency while doing his best to ignore that his friends were all in mortal peril and he couldn’t do anything about it. He’d only managed to not have nightmares when he took Dreamless Sleep potion, which he was still trying not to take every single night. And now, after fending off mental attacks all morning, he’d had to give up even more of his awful memories for perusal by Snape, who was going to share them with Dumbledore, and the only way he’d been able to think of forestalling it was to alienate Snape yet again by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He was too tired even to worry about the fact that Snape had shut him in here in a clear directive that he was to stay put, that they weren’t finished with today’s lesson. Or maybe Snape just wanted him to stay so that he could yell at him some more when he returned.

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, no doubt mussing it more than it usually was, and closed his eyes. He sat there for far longer than he thought it would take for Snape to make a simple fire-call, and still the man didn’t return. Finally, he began to practice building a mental wall in an attempt to block out his mixed up emotions. All he had to do was to pull up a memory here, recall an emotion there, and use each piece to block out everything he most wanted to think about in this particular moment. No thinking about how sick he felt having had his memories forcefully ripped from his mind. No thinking about how Dumbledore was going to think he was a nut case waiting to crack. No thinking about Snape’s memories, about how he and his professor might have far more in common than he’d thought…

He was mostly successful at Occluding. He couldn’t quite do away with the churning in his stomach, but he was able to hide his thoughts away from his conscious mind, clear it of anything more taxing than leaves rustling through a soft breeze. Breath in, breath out, breath in…and he started to feel calm…

His scar erupted in pain. He yelped and clamped his hands over his head, panting through his teeth.

“Ow ow ow ow,” he chanted as the pain intensified in waves. He felt a wave of panic. His scar never hurt this much unless Voldemort was nearby. Voldemort couldn’t be nearby, could he?

No. No, of course not. They were at headquarters. Protected by a Secret-Keeper. He couldn’t possibly. Not even Remus could tell—

“Ooooooww!” he keened and crumpled to the ground. He lay on his side and drew up his knees to his chest, but nothing eased the pain.

Something was _wrong_.

“Dob— _ow_ …Dobby!” he called as loudly as he could, and a few seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of house-elf Apparition.

“Harry Potter is wanting Dobby, sir?” squeaked a happy voice, and even through his pain, Harry felt a little bad that he had been mostly ignoring Dobby since the Weasleys had arrived. He’d have to sit down and have a chat with him someti— _ow ow ow ow!_ “Harry Potter is sick!” the house-elf wailed upon seeing Harry’s state.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Dob…get…get Snape. Tell—” he let out a moan and said through gritted teeth, “it’s an _—ow ow ow_ —emergency!”

“Dobby will get Professor Snape right away, Harry Potter!” he squeaked urgently and disappeared with a pop.

Harry concentrated on his breathing. In, out, in, out. But nothing could ease the pain of the scar. His vision was wavering, and his ears were starting to ring.

_Harry Potter_ …he thought he heard a voice calling to him, but that was impossible. He was alone…

_Harry Potter_ , it said more clearly, and Voldemort’s red eyes flitted through the darkness of his vision. _Come and get what belongs to you._ And though his eyes were closed, an image flitted through his mind, as if he were looking at it, of a clearing and a man—Remus—and—

He heard a door open and close abruptly, and hurried footsteps reached his side. “Potter?” Snape’s alarmed voice called from above him.

“Nuuuuuh!” he managed through clenched teeth and scrunched up his face, hoping that Snape would get the picture and have some way to help him.

_Come and get what belongs to you, Harry Potter. You have until midnight. Show yourself or more will die._

He felt hands prying his fingers away from his scar, but he strained against them. He couldn’t let go of his scar, couldn’t let go, or the pain would overwhelm him. Snape was the stronger of the two though, and despite his struggles, Harry felt his fingers pulled away from his forehead. His hands felt wet and sticky, and he realized that his scar must be bleeding.

Snape sucked in a breath and let out an expletive that Harry was pretty sure teachers weren’t supposed to say in front of their students.

“Potter, can you hear me?”

“Ye— _ooooow_ ,” he moaned as another wave of pain engulfed him.

_Tonight, Harry Potter. Or more will die._

He felt his head being lifted, placed on something soft, and a hand brushed his fringe from his face. He didn’t care that it was Snape, didn’t care that Snape knew he was conscious; he grasped the hand with his own, needing some small amount of comfort.

To his relief, Snape didn’t pull away. “Push him from your mind.”

He wanted to snap at the man, tell him that of course that’s what he wanted to do, but this wasn’t _usual_ , was it? But the next instant the pain ebbed, and finally Harry could breathe without reminding himself to do so. He took a long gulp of air and shuddered. The sharp, all-consuming pain was gone, and along with it Voldemort’s presence, but his entire body _ached_ and his head throbbed in time with his pounding heart.

“Harry?” Snape’s voice held an edge of panic, and Harry realized that in his relief and exhaustion, his entire body had gone limp.

“I…” he croaked and tried to clear his throat but that set off a coughing fit. Snape conjured a glass of water and helped him to sit up far enough to drink it. “Thanks,” he breathed and lay his head back down on what he realized was a bundled up cloak. Snape’s cloak, the one he kept on the wall by the door. “I’m okay. He’s g—gone.”

“That was…” Snape shook his head in amazement, clearly shaken. “How often does that happen?”

“It d—doesn’t,” Harry croaked, careful to keep as still as possible so Snape wouldn’t realize that Harry was clinging to his hand again. “It really doesn’t,” he repeated at Snape’s skeptical look. “It was…was awful when he tried to possess me last year, but u—usually it’s only really bad when he’s close by. It can h—hurt a lot when he’s feeling strong emotions, but never like this. This was…new.” He hated that his voice trembled, but he felt like a scared little kid all of a sudden. Voldemort had reached into his mind. Intentionally reached into his mind! He’d never done that before. Well, okay, he had…but he’d never done it to send him a message. And Harry was starting to freak out.

Snape pulled away, and it was all Harry could do to stop himself from grasping at his hand again to keep him by his side. But the man was only gone for a few seconds, and when he returned, it was with a damp cloth. He used it to gently wipe the blood from Harry’s face.

Harry closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. The coolness of the cloth felt good against his pounding head, helped to calm his rising pulse. “Hurts,” he mumbled.

“I can imagine,” Snape murmured. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He was sending me a m—message. Remus…he’s alive. You-Know-Who wants me to turn myself in. A t—trade, I think.”

Snape paused his ministrations. “It was not a vision?”

Harry shook his head and hissed when that produced a horrible pain in his temple. He reached a hand to his head but Snape caught it, wiping the blood off his fingers with the cloth. “He did it on purpose,” he explained. “That— He’s never done that before, not like this. Why does it _hurt_ so much?”

“Were you Occluding?”

“Yes. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it, too,” he said miserably.

“He probably had a difficult time accessing your mind.” Snape surrendered one clean hand and reached for the other. “He likely forced himself past your defenses, resulting in the physical trauma.”

“What’s the point then?” Harry cried and immediately grunted at a stab of pain in his scar. “If Occluding won’t stop him, will only make it hurt more, then what’s the point?”

“The _point_ is that the more proficient you get at Occlumency, the more difficulty he will have in accessing your mind, and sooner or later—preferably sooner—he will not be able to at all.”

“So why now?” Harry complained. “He hasn’t set out to get inside my head in months—and even then, it was to trick me, not to send me a message. He’s _never_ done _this_ before!”

Snape laid his other hand, now clean, on top of the first and set aside the blood-streaked cloth. “I told you that he has gained power since his rise. It is possible that he is flexing his powers, testing their limits.”

Harry sighed. The light hurt his eyes. He blinked a few times and then kept his eyes closed. It was probably best not to look at Snape when he said what he had to say next anyway. “He showed me where Remus is. Said if I don’t go to him tonight, by midnight, more people will die.” He tamped down his rising panic. Snape would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

“That is not going to happen,” Snape said darkly.

“What if—”

“Where is Lupin? What did you see?” Snape interrupted, his sharp tone clearly communicating that he wasn’t going to listen to any arguments Harry might make about doing as Voldemort said.

Harry squinted up at him but it was hard to concentrate with the brightness of the room. “It was…a clearing, next to a hill and two big rocks. One was taller than the other, kind of pointy. Remus was tied to a tree next to the shorter rock, and the Death Eaters were there with him.”

“I know where that is.” With a wave of his wand, Snape dimmed the lights in the room. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and opened his eyes a little wider. Snape went on, “The Dark Lord has used that clearing before, for ritual and sacrifice.”

Harry shivered at the images invoked by both of those words. “Remus?” he whispered fearfully.

“You say he is still alive. That is good,” he said, but Harry heard what he didn’t say: Voldemort was done with whatever he’d kept Remus alive for, and now all he was good for was bait. If they didn’t get him back today, he’d probably be dead by morning.

“What do we do?” At Snape’s chiding look, Harry rolled his eyes—though even that small movement hurt his head—and corrected himself. “Fine. Not we. What are _you_ going to do?”

“The Dark Lord will be expecting the Order to show. He knows that we would not allow you to take the bait.”

“Why send me the message then?”

“To set a trap,” Snape clipped. “However, he also knows that it is worth a try. He knows you at least well enough to know that you _would_ take the bait if no one were around to stop you.” Snape actually growled at that. “If he has no more use for Lupin, then he has nothing to lose by giving him up in an attempt to capture you. I’d wager that not only will he actually be there, the Death Eaters guarding him will only stay long enough to ascertain that you are not there. If they can take out any members of the Order while there, all the better.”

“Are you going to go with them?” Harry hoped the room was dim enough that Snape couldn’t see how much that thought worried him.

Snape shook his head. “My orders are to lie low for now.”

“And you always follow orders?” Harry asked with a yawn, genuinely curious to hear Snape’s answer.

“It quite depends on who it is giving the orders,” the professor said dryly as he pulled out his wand. He muttered a spell so softly that Harry couldn’t make it out, and a small mattress popped into being right next to him, complete with a soft-looking blanket and pillow. “You should rest. In here so that I can keep an eye on you for any aftereffects. I’d give you Dreamless Sleep, but the mind melding potion is still in your system…”

“But how can I sleep? Remus!” he protested and tried to sit up, but that only resulted in a stabbing pain in his scar, which reverberated through his head and down his spine. He groaned as Snape guided him back down to the floor.

“I will convey the message to the Order. We will do everything in our power to retrieve him.”

“Promise?” His eyes were drooping against his will, but he searched Snape’s face, needing reassurance. He didn’t know what he would do if he found out that Remus had died. It would be like living through Sirius’s death all over again.

“I promise,” Snape murmured, then half-helped, half-lifted him onto the mattress. Harry didn’t even mind the indignity of being lifted like a child, he was so consumed with gritting his teeth against the ache that flowed through his very bones.

“He said…more would die if I don’t show up. What if—”

“The Dark Lord will wreak havoc and destruction no matter what happens today,” Snape cut him off. “In fact, he would likely cause more harm were he to capture you and successfully use your blood to increase his own powers.”

Harry mulled that over for a minute, then asked, “Do you think he’ll try it again? Break into my mind like that?” He didn’t know if he could deal with such pain twice in one day.

“Not now,” Snape assured. “He relayed his message. But without knowing his plans…and without knowing how his forcing himself into your mind will have affected you, it’s best to be on guard just the same.”

“Professor?” he asked, blinking to stay awake. There were too many things that needed to be said before he could sleep, and not all of them were about Voldemort.

Snape hummed, pulling the blanket over him. Harry found that he quite liked the feeling of being tucked in.

“You don’t _really_ think my relatives tried to kill me, do you?”

That vein in Snape’s temple twitched, but his features were impassive. “Do you really think they didn’t?”

“Yeah,” he answered honestly, voice thick with drowsiness. “They’re probably lucky I didn’t die a few times, but they’re not murderers.”

“Hmm,” sounded Snape noncommittally.

“Did you tell Dumbledore?”

Snape sat next to Harry and studied him for a minute. “No… I gave it further consideration—” He took a breath as if to say more, then simply repeated, “No.” The way he said it, Harry knew he’d decided not to tell Dumbledore at all. He felt both grateful and confused by that.

“Why not?”

Snape hesitated, then said, “You were…correct. You are old enough to choose in whom you wish to confide.”

“I thought you thought Dumbledore needed to know.”

“Yes…well. I reacted… That is, after considering the matter…” Snape glanced away. “I believe that the headmaster knows enough already to make informed decisions concerning you. Anything more…” He looked back at him assessingly. “Anything more will come from you, not me.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured, and Snape inclined his head in acknowledgment. The professor looked calmer now, like he wouldn’t go off on him, so he added, half yawning, “I’m sorry for prying into your personal life again.”

His apology was met with silence.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me anything,” he mumbled. “Just so you know though, it’s not like I’d pity you or anything. I know we can’t choose our family.”

Snape sighed. “Go to sleep, Potter.”

“You should sleep too,” he murmured, struggling to keep his eyes open. “…look tired.”

“I will. Later. Now sleep, Harry.”

“Mm—kay…”

Sleep enveloped him quickly, but not before a cool hand brushed his fringe away from his face and then settled gently on his hair. It stayed until long after he had fallen asleep.


	31. Grimmauld Place

Remus was dead.

His lifeless eyes stared up at Harry, accusing even in their emptiness, and Harry could almost hear them asking, “Why? Why didn’t you come? He asked for you…you could have saved me.”

Harry shook his head, tears pooling in his eyes. He opened his mouth and tried to answer Remus, but he couldn’t speak. Words wouldn’t pass his lips.

Neither would breath. He tried to suck air into his lungs, but nothing happened. His lungs wouldn’t expand. He was frozen.

Was he about to die? Was this his punishment? He’d failed both Sirius and Remus, was responsible for both of their deaths. Somewhere beyond the Veil, his own father must hate him for getting his closest childhood friends killed.

Of course, it was also because of Harry that Voldemort had gone after his parents. James Potter would already have good reason to resent him, wouldn’t he?

Harry wished he could talk to him, know whether his father was angry with him, disappointed in him.

But he sure hoped he wouldn’t have to die right now to do so. He finally managed a wheezing breath, and the slightest bit of air trickled into his starved lungs. He couldn’t get more, and he was starting to panic. He tried to take back his thoughts of wanting to talk to James. He didn’t want to die!

He scratched at his neck, his chest, trying to force them to expand, and he found himself suddenly drawn upright, a firm hand pounding him once on the back.

He came to awareness with a jolt, and in his confusion, he sucked in a large gasp of air. Relief filled him as his lungs expanded, and he immediately drew another deep breath. It came too quickly though; he couldn’t release the first one, still couldn’t breathe. He clawed again at his throat, but a strong hand caught both of his hands and held them away from his body.

“Breathe, Potter. It was only a dream. Take one breath, slowly, like this.” It took several seconds for Harry to register that Snape was in front of him, supporting him by the shoulder with one hand, clasping both his hands in the other, and the man was taking exaggeratedly deep, slow breaths.

Harry focused on those dark eyes, tried to match his professor’s slow breathing. It felt like it took forever, but he finally felt the worst of the panic seep from his body as air steadily filled and departed from his lungs.

“I thought Remus was dead,” Harry croaked as soon as he could speak. “He’s not, is he?” _Please tell me he’s not_ , he added silently with pleading eyes.

Snape shook his head. “It is early afternoon. The Order has not yet attempted to retrieve him.”

Harry closed his eyes in relief, then just as quickly opened them again. “What’s happened?” he demanded, his heart still pounding from the nightmare. “Does the Order know? They’re going, then? Is there a plan?”

Snape let go of Harry’s hands and held up his own hand in a clear order for silence. Harry obediently stopped speaking.

“How is your head?” Snape asked.

“Fine,” Harry answered quickly. “You did tell the Order, right?”

“Yes. Are you disoriented? Is there lingering pain?”

“I’m fine,” Harry waved off the questions. “When are they going to find Remus?”

Snape removed his hand from Harry’s shoulder, hovering for a second as if waiting for Harry to fall over. When he didn’t, Snape knelt beside him and said in his I-am-speaking-to-a-dunderhead tone, “Let’s try this again. Are you experiencing any discomfort?”

Harry stared. “Seriously? You’re not going to answer any of my _very important_ questions until I submit to, what, a full medical examination?”

“It appears that way, doesn’t it?” Snape’s face held no hint that he was messing with him. Not that Harry would know what that looked like on Snape’s face. The man wasn’t exactly the kidding type. He also wasn’t the patient type, for he snapped, “Answer my question, Potter, fully and to my satisfaction, and then I shall answer yours. I believe you are familiar with the concept.”

At that, Harry couldn’t help a devilish thought. “Any question?” he asked, trying to keep a smile off his face. There were all sorts of personal questions he’d like to ask Snape now, and if he could get a promise that one would be answered, how could he pass up the opportunity? He’d get answers about the Order and Remus either way.

“About Lupin,” Snape shot back, giving him a knowing look. Not for the first time, Harry wished that Snape weren’t quite so intelligent. But then, without Snape’s intelligence and cunning, both he and Harry might have already died a few times. So there was that.

“Fine,” he grumbled, though he wasn’t quite so put out as he pretended to be. Trying to one-up Snape, even if he hadn’t succeeded, had lightened his mood. “My head still hurts, but it’s more a dull headache now. No stabbing pain like before.”

“Your scar is still red, but it is completely closed,” Snape said, barely brushing Harry’s fringe aside to get a look at it. “Not even a scab,” he added with raised eyebrows. “How extraordinary.”

Harry shrugged. Nothing surprised him about his scar anymore.

“Nausea? Disorientation?” asked Snape.

Harry shook his head.

“Up,” Snape directed, getting to his feet and gesturing for Harry to do the same. “Walk to the door and back without falling over or resembling a drunk, and I’ll answer your questions.”

Easy enough, thought Harry and rose to do just that. He _might_ have wobbled a bit just starting out, but then, he _had_ just woken up. Either way, Snape didn’t point it out when he walked back, just gave him a headache draught and said, “The Order will attempt to retrieve Lupin after dark. No doubt the Dark Lord will expect this, but darkness will provide them with more cover to attempt some measure of surprise.”

“Is that really possible at this point? Surprising them, I mean?” Harry asked before downing the headache draught. He handed the empty vial back to Snape.

Snape gave a barely perceptible shrug as he set the vial on the counter. “It is far from a perfect situation. They will do what they can.”

“What if…” Harry stopped to gather his thoughts, realizing that what he had been about to suggest would probably have Snape locking him up in the potions lab for the rest of vacation. But he saw no way to sugarcoat it, so he asked anyway, “What if the Death Eaters were to see me? If they thought I’d come to turn myself in, maybe that would give the Order time to-”

“What in Merlin’s name is _wrong_ with you?” thundered Snape, throwing up his hands. “Do you sit up at night thinking of ways to sacrifice yourself for the betterment of wizardkind? I’ve never met someone so eager to rush headlong into danger!”

“I’m not eager!” Harry protested. “I’m being practical! I’m the one he wants, and maybe if he thinks he’s got me, he won’t get anybody else!”

“Oh yes, the noble, selfless Gryffindor,” Snape mocked. “Then consider this. The Order - a group of fully _capable_ and _trained_ adult wizards - is willing to take this risk. They are willing to lay down their lives to retrieve one of their own - and also to protect _you_. To repay their courage by mindlessly forfeiting your own life is to discount the contributions that they _willingly_ make to the war effort. To think you know better than them is an insult to their intelligence and to their sacrifice. It is the _opposite_ of selfless!”

Harry had to think about that for a minute. _Was_ he being selfish by wanting to charge out there? He wasn’t trying to be. He knew the Order was made up of capable adult wizards who knew a thing or two about how Voldemort worked. He wasn’t meaning to insult them…

“You are brave, Potter,” Snape pressed his advantage by surprising Harry with what sounded like a compliment. “But you need not be stupidly brave. _Think_. I always assumed you to be lacking in intelligence and cunning in part because I saw you acting without them time after time.” He shook his head. “I have since come to see that you have a great capacity for cunning, but you’ve only learned to use it for trifling matters, in situations of no consequence. It is a muscle that must be exercised so that in matters of life and death, you will desist in this impulse of yours to _act without thinking!_ ”

Harry fiddled with the hem of his shirt, thinking through Snape’s words. “Well technically,” he couldn’t help pointing out, “I _am_ thinking before acting, by talking it through with you. You don’t see me rushing into You-Know-Who’s lair right this second, do you?”

“Do you have any idea how much effort has gone into ensuring that?” Snape said through gritted teeth.

Harry thought about how long it had taken Snape to get Harry to promise not to interfere with Remus…and even then, he hadn’t promised one hundred percent. And then how Snape had closed him up in his lab while he slept, been here when he woke up… “Okay…yeah,” he conceded with a sheepish shrug, determined not to dwell on the fact that Snape appeared to be babysitting him. He couldn’t let the idea go completely though. “Maybe…Polyjuice? Somebody could go there looking like me, as a distraction or a decoy or something…”

“Such a measure has already been suggested,” Snape admitted in a low grumble. “However, we think it best to keep the subterfuge to a minimum. To send anyone in there as your double would be to endanger their lives unnecessarily.”

Harry could only think to say, “Oh,” ashamed that he hadn’t thought of how dangerous such a plan would be to the Harry impersonator.

“The Order has run through every possible plan and outcome,” Snape said. “As difficult as it may be for you to wait and see, that is precisely what you must do. Now…” he straightened to indicate that their conversation was at an end, “I do believe that Miss Weasley and Miss Granger are in the drawing room. You should join them. Perhaps they can provide you with some measure of distraction.”

Harry shot Snape a look that conveyed his frustration with the situation, and Snape shot him one right back that said _don’t you dare test me_ before shooing him out the door. Harry was halfway down the stairs before he wondered just when he and Snape had begun to communicate so well without words.

* * *

“It really is ridiculous that we’re not allowed to sit in on Order meetings,” Ginny pouted that evening. She sat opposite Harry and Hermione at the kitchen table, arms crossed, clearly irritated at being shuffled yet again from one place to another.

To tell the truth, Harry was irritated too. Ever since he’d come downstairs, he’d been left in the dark about the Order’s plans. First the three teens weren’t allowed in the kitchen while the adults were meeting and planning, and now they weren’t allowed in the drawing room while people were coming and going from the floo, no doubt communicating updates and orders while the Order began their attempt to retrieve Remus.

That much they’d gathered was happening, though Harry could have guessed that much from what Snape had told him. But they knew nothing beyond that.

Harry’s leg was bouncing from the nerves of knowing that the Order knew it could be a trap. He could only hope that since they knew that, they would have some tricks up their sleeves. He also hoped Snape knew how _difficult_ it was for him to keep his promise not to do something rash.

“Well, I want to know what’s going on as much as you do,” Hermione said to Ginny, “but we _are_ technically still kids. We’ve still got two full years of school left. Can you really blame them for trying to protect us?”

“Yes,” Ginny answered stubbornly. “Yes, I can.”

Harry grinned despite his nerves, and the room fell silent.

As he’d begun to do whenever he was faced with doing nothing for any length of time, Harry practiced Occluding. He didn’t do it as well as he could have, what with everything going on tonight, but he at least calmed himself enough to keep his leg still.

“Maybe we should play a game,” Hermione spoke up. “Exploding Snap?”

Ginny wrinkled her nose and Harry shrugged halfheartedly.

“We should do _something_ ,” Hermione insisted. “This sitting here, waiting for news, is nerve-wracking. We need a distraction.”

“Yeah, we probably do,” conceded Harry, “but I’m not sure I’m up for a game, Hermione.”

“Okay…well, then we could…” Hermione looked around the room as if for inspiration, but there wasn’t much to be had in the kitchen. “Hmm. This house doesn’t seem to have been designed with fun in mind, does it? Even the library is so limited.”

Harry turned his head so only Ginny could see him playfully roll his eyes. Leave it to Hermione to equate fun with books.

Ginny giggled and then snapped her fingers. “I know! We should dig for buried treasure!”

Harry and Hermione both stared at her, not quite sure what to say, but Harry broke the silence first. “Um…buried treasure? In Grimmauld Place?” he asked skeptically.

“Yeah! Okay, no, not really. But now that all the dark magic is taken care of, we can explore the house without worrying about boggarts or doxies or curses.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry couldn’t think how to put it politely. “What is there to explore? Every room is occupied. I doubt your parents or Professor Snape are going to want us poking around in their rooms.”

“Well, of course not. I wasn’t suggesting that. But there _are_ some interesting-looking trunks in the attic. And nobody ever bothers to go to the fourth floor except to pass through it to the attic.”

“Not there,” Harry said automatically, his heart skipping a beat.

Ginny looked taken aback by his abrupt tone. “But why-”

“Sirius’s room is up there, remember?” said Hermione softly. “I don’t think anybody’s been in there since…”

“Oh,” Ginny looked at Harry apologetically. “I’m sorry, I forgot…I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” he reassured her, and to deflect attention from the subject of Sirius, he said, “Okay, then. The attic it is. Though if we don’t find anything that meets the criteria of fun, I say we talk Fred and George into demoing their latest product for us.”

Ginny grinned, clearly relieved that Harry didn’t seem too upset. “Agreed.”

He regretted agreeing almost as soon as they stepped into the attic, so dusty were the odds and ends. “Are you positive they cleared out everything dangerous in here?” he asked as he doubtfully surveyed a few dusty trunks and passed by a dark, cobwebbed corner. The dirty, musty surroundings hadn’t bothered him when all he’d needed was a space to study and practice. But now they were getting ready to _open_ things, and he _really_ wasn’t in the mood to face a boggart. Would his greatest fear still be a Dementor? Or would he have to watch everybody he loved fall through the Veil one after another? Neither option sounded very pleasant.

“Certain,” said Ginny. She didn’t show the same hesitation as Harry. She was already reaching for the first trunk. “My mum and dad made sure it was all gone. There was no need to go through everything or to clean the attic as well as the rest of the house, but they ferreted out anything nasty or dark.”

“Hmm,” Hermione cast a wary glance over the attic. She and Harry exchanged a look, and Harry knew he wasn’t alone in not being particularly excited about opening random dirty trunks in a musty attic belonging to a dark wizarding family.

“Ooh, look at this!” Ginny held up a small oddly spiked metal ring. “It’s a Teezler!”

Harry’d barely started to ask what a Teezler was when Hermione squeaked, jumped, and excitedly sat down next to Ginny in front of the trunk. “Ooh, I’ve never seen one in person before! I don’t think they’ve been sold in wizarding shops since the 1960’s. You have to have wizard parents or grandparents to even find one anymore! What else is in there?”

Harry smiled and shook his head. It figured that all Hermione needed was a hint of wizarding history, and she forgot all about her misgivings. He made his way to the next closest trunk, lifting the lid warily in case Ginny was wrong about how thoroughly the room had been sorted. But all that greeted him was a mix of old toys and bits of fabric. He rooted through it, fascinated by a small wooden cauldron and spoon that, when placed on the ground, filled with white steam and stirred itself around and around. He smiled wistfully as he watched it. Had his parents lived, would his childhood have been filled with toys like this? Toy cauldrons and broomsticks, stuffed dragons and hippogriffs?

At the very least, his childhood would have been filled with love.

“Harry, look!” Hermione’s voice interrupted his morose thoughts. “A Gnobblisk!” She waved a shiny football-sized orb with a blunt spike on each end as if Harry should be as excited as she was to see one. As if Harry had any clue what a Gnobblisk was. He nodded and smiled in her direction. She apparently took that as agreement that he _was_ as excited as she was, then went back to rooting through more of the trunk’s contents.

Harry pushed the toy cauldron to one side and pulled out a long bit of lacy fabric. He barely had time to register that it was some sort of baby dress when his scar flared up in pain. He clapped his hand over it with a muffled grunt as a wave of happiness rushed through him. He knew immediately that Voldemort was overjoyed about something. And he was far too happy for it to be about something good. After a moment, the pain subsided enough for him to move.

He was glad that the girls didn’t appear to have noticed. He was even more glad that it appeared to be an accidental connection, not a purposeful invasion of his mind like last time. He wondered if he ought to tell Professor Snape. What would he tell him though? It wasn’t an actual vision. All he knew was that Voldemort was happy. He could have been happy to have been served his favorite dinner, for all Harry knew.

Of course, Harry was pretty sure that wasn’t it…and he desperately tried not to think about what it might mean for the Order or Remus that Voldemort was happy right now. So as he couldn’t be certain what it meant, he went back to unpacking the trunk, bracing himself in case he should feel any more pangs in his scar. He was afraid now to Occlude, knowing that Voldemort was still stronger than he was and that it would only make any mental invasion hurt worse than if he simply gave in and let him into his mind.

He would _never_ tell that to Snape. He’d get an awful tongue-lashing if the professor knew that Harry was inclined to let Voldemort win this round out of fear of physical pain. But…it was a _lot_ of physical pain…

He sighed and halfheartedly looked at toy after toy, baby outfit after baby outfit, before shoving it all haphazardly back into the trunk. Any interest he’d had in this “treasure hunt” was all but gone, and it was only making him miserable, this looking at the evidence of somebody else’s happy childhood.

Hermione was still examining random finds from the first trunk while Ginny had moved on to another. Harry thought about abandoning the hunt and going downstairs for a snack…but the girls looked so happy right then. And they all needed as much happiness as they could get these days. So he moved to an untouched trunk and opened the lid.

Pictures. Album after album of stuffy wizards holding their squirming children still for photographs. There were newspaper clippings and awards too. Most looked like they were older than the first war against Voldemort, but there were some from that time too. From the nature of the clippings, Harry would have guessed that this was a house of dark wizards even had he not already known that fact.

One album seemed newer than the rest, and as soon as he opened it, he wished that he hadn’t. Sirius was waving at him from the page. A young Sirius, perhaps a year or so younger than Harry was now. As much as it hurt to see, Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had no idea how this album had wound up in the attic, but he leaned his back against the trunk and flipped through page after page of Sirius. In some, he was with another young boy - probably his brother. In others, the brothers were with their parents. From Sirius’s scowls and attempts to dart out of the photograph, they obviously didn’t have a good relationship. The ones that interested Harry the most, however, were the photographs of Sirius at Hogwarts, because they mostly included James. He flipped through those slowly, running his finger over the edge of a photograph of James and Sirius decked out in Gryffindor Quidditch robes, students weaving about the Hogwarts grounds behind them. They couldn’t have been older than second or third years, and they looked so happy.

Harry smiled sadly at their joy. They didn’t know then that both their lives would be cut short in violent ways, but at that moment, standing together near the Quidditch field, they were _happy_. It was nice to see, even if it made him sad at the same time.

On the other side of the room, Ginny crowed in victory as she held up another something that Harry had no idea how to identify. Even Hermione didn’t know this time, which made her even more excited, if that were possible. She immediately peppered Ginny with questions.

Harry grinned at their antics and flipped the page…but as he was doing so, a flash of red hair caught his eye. He flipped back to the Quidditch photograph and looked closer. His heart flipped. In the background, behind the shot of James and Sirius, Lily was sitting on the grass laughing. He recognized her from Snape’s Pensieve memory, though she had to be a couple years younger here. He traced her small face with a finger, wishing he could insert himself into the photograph to know what she was laughing at. He had so few pictures of his parents and none of them as children. He took the photograph out of the album - it’s not like anybody in the Black family was around to mind if he kept it - and carefully put it in his pocket alongside the heart-shaped stone. He’d taken to carrying the stone with him, and he absently rubbed it between two fingers. He would put the photograph with his mum’s letter for now. He’d look for a better hiding place than his trunk when he returned to Hogwarts.

He’d only looked through a few more pages of photographs when his scar flared to life again. But this time he barely registered his shoulder and head hitting the ground and a distant “Harry!” before he was thrust into Voldemort’s mind.

_He laughed, his lips stretching into a smile. His Death Eaters responded to his joy, laughing with him._

_It had only been a matter of time before he found the boy, before his location was revealed. Harry Potter could only evade him for so long. But soon. Oh, soon, the boy would be his._

_He looked at the small group of Death Eaters before him. They would all be rewarded for their efforts. But first…first they would find the boy._

No. This was wrong. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be seeing this. He heard a girl’s voice say something about “…getting Snape.” Snape? Was he here? Harry felt his mind reaching out, fighting the hold that Voldemort had over his mind. But it was so strong…

_Dumbledore was a fool to hide him in yet another Muggle neighborhood. The old man was becoming predictable. Too soon, he would see the error of his ways._

Fight it. He could fight it! But…it was so, so hard…

_“Soon we shall be victorious!” he yelled at his followers, and a cheer reached his ears. His smile grew. “We attack at dawn. We take the fight to them. We take the fight to-”_

Musty air. Solid ground. Fruity shampoo. One by one, he felt the threads of the vision snap as he drew his mind away from Voldemort’s. Two more words flitted through his mind as the last thread snapped:

_“-Grimmauld Place.”_


	32. Lost and Found

Harry slowly opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back on the attic floor. His head was pounding, and his muscles and limbs felt heavy. The world that had been muffled by his mind’s struggles came into sharp focus. A worried cry. A girl’s voice asking if he would be alright. Rough but gentle hands on either side of his face. Snape’s hook-nosed face hovering over him, calling his name.

Odd that out of everything, his first conscious thought was that Snape was calling him _Harry_ , and his second thought was that it didn’t sound as strange as he’d have thought it would.

“Harry, are you with me? Are you in your own mind?” the professor said, his brows pinched together in what Harry could only describe as worry. Why did that also not seem strange? Had things really changed so much in so short a time?

Harry stared blankly for a moment before nodding, and he could see the relief on Snape’s face. But he didn’t think the man would stay relieved for long. Harry remembered the last words he’d gleaned from Voldemort’s mind, and it was anything but cause for relief.

“He knows,” he said numbly, looking up at his professor. “Grimmauld Place. He knows.”

Snape froze in place at those words. “He…knows,” he repeated, as if willing the words not to be true. He immediately shook his head, the action seeming to gather his wits. “He can’t possibly know where you are. Headquarters is secure. Only the headmaster could tell its location, and he would never. You must be mistaken.”

Harry shakily pushed himself up to a sitting position and Snape let him, removing his hands and backing up to give him space. Both girls were sitting on his other side, eyes wide in alarm. He lifted a hand to gingerly rub a sore spot on the side of his head where must have bumped it when he’d fallen over.

“Yeah, yeah I know,” he said quickly, swallowing his fear. There would be plenty of time to give in to fear later, but not now. Now was the time for action. “He _shouldn’t_ know. But he _does_. Somehow he knows. I saw it. He told his Death Eaters they were going to attack Grimmauld Place at dawn. Because he knows that’s where _I_ am.”

Snape shook his head again. “That’s…impossible.”

“He’s getting ready to attack, professor,” Harry said desperately. He reached out and grabbed hold of Snape’s arm, willing him to believe. “I _saw_ it.”

A squeak of alarm came from Ginny, and she placed her hands over her lips. Hermione looked just as frightened but looked to Snape, waiting for the professor to decide what they should do.

But Harry’s mind was already racing ahead, thinking of the implications. “Professor…” He squeezed Snape’s arm, afraid to know the answer to his question but needing to ask it. “If he’s planning his next move, that means…the Order? Remus? Did they…is he..?” he whispered, pleading with his eyes. If the Order had been successful, if they’d rescued Remus and nobody was hurt, then Voldemort wouldn’t be so happy, would he? Something _must_ have gone wrong, and Harry was frightened to hear what that might be.

Snape shook his head. “They have yet to return, but they have not been gone long enough for concern.” He didn’t let Harry dwell on that. He grasped him by the shoulders and said, “I need to see.”

By the way Snape was looking at him, intently and like he was asking permission for something, Harry understood immediately. Snape wanted to Legilimize him. He nodded, forcefully pushing thoughts of Remus out of his conscious mind. He knew that one couldn’t see memories as clearly through Legilimency as through use of a Pensieve, but they didn’t have time to get a Pensieve. He looked Snape in the eyes, willing him to see what he’d seen. He’d learned over their lessons of the past week how difficult it could be to detect Legilimency. He could feel Snape’s mind entering his when under the influence of the potion, but the first few times Snape had Legilimized him without use of a wand or potion, he hadn’t felt a thing. Only after quite a bit of practice was he beginning to be able to detect the slightest wisp of something brushing his mind, something he now recognized as Snape’s mind looking into his. Even so, if he hadn’t known he was being Legilimized, he might have discounted it as his imagination.

He brought up the vision exactly how he had seen it. As brief as it had been, it didn’t take long for Snape to view Harry’s recollection in its entirety, break the connection, and push to his feet. He held out a hand to Harry. Surprised at the gesture, Harry only hesitated a second before grasping it and allowing the man to help him up from the ground. Snape watched him for a moment, probably making sure he wasn’t going to fall over again, then headed for the stairs. “Wait here,” he instructed over his shoulder.

“No!” Harry cried and made to follow, but Snape turned sharply, his hand catching Harry square in the center of his chest and holding him in place.

“You will stay here,” the man hissed, “where you are safe. Where all of you are safe.” He jerked his arm up to gesture toward the girls, who were silently watching their exchange.

“No,” Harry repeated indignantly. He drew himself to his full height, even though he wasn’t very tall. “If he knows where I am, then he’s coming for me. And if he’s coming for me, then that puts everybody else in danger. I _know_ I need to stay safe, not do anything rash, alright? But I’m not going to just sit up here in the attic, hiding out like a little kid, while the adults decide what to do about the evil murderous maniac who’s after _me_!”

Snape studied Harry with a long, measuring gaze. Finally, he said, “Fine. Stay close,” and hurried down the stairs.

It took him a several seconds to process that Snape had actually given in. Elated through his frazzled nerves, he scrambled to catch up with the professor, and he heard Ginny and Hermione trailing closely behind.

It didn’t take Snape long to reach the drawing room, three teenagers in tow. They could hear Moody’s voice as they entered, saying in his familiar suspicious tone, “Too easy, I tell you. It was-” He was pacing the floor but stopped as they entered. He barely cast a glance at the teens before he eyed Snape with his usual distrust.

Snape ignored him and headed for the floo where Mr. Weasley stood with one of the twins - George, Harry thought. Mrs. Weasley was on the sofa bandaging a nasty cut on Tonks’s wrist, and the room was otherwise conspicuously empty of Order members. It seemed that everybody was tired lately, Harry mused as he took in the scene, but Mrs. Weasley in particular had grown more haggard over the past week. He wondered if she’d been sleeping at all or spending every night keeping vigil over Ron’s bedside. She was there almost every time he visited Ron.

“Oh, Severus, you’re here. Good,” Mrs. Weasley said, barely looking up. “Alastor’s alerted us that the others are on their way back. We’re going to need more healing balm-” she cut herself off as she noticed Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. “Children, out!” she ordered, color returning to her face, and Harry almost didn’t mind being ordered about, so happy was he to see her animated about something. Not that he had any intention of obeying her.

Ginny protested before Harry or Hermione had a chance to, but Mrs. Weasley stood and squared her shoulders. “People - _injured_ people - are on their way here, and we’ll be discussing Order business while we get them seen to, and an Order meeting is no place for children. To the kitchen, now!” She pointed to the door, her tone brooking no argument.

Harry looked to Snape, ready to argue his case, but as it turned out, he didn’t need to. Snape waved him toward one of the sofas and said, “Mr. Potter will be staying.” Mrs. Weasley only had time to put her hands on her hips before Snape added in a tone of finality, “Miss Granger and your daughter are under your purview, Molly. Albus specifically entrusted Mr. Potter to _my_ care and _my_ authority, and I have decided that he will stay.”

Harry could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to find a way to win against that argument. She finally huffed, “Fine. Girls, out!”

“Mum!” Ginny began to argue again, and Hermione looked to Harry, eyes pleading. He didn’t know what sway she thought he had with the adults. Sure, Snape had let him stay, but he knew the man well enough to know he’d better not push it. He gave her an apologetic look and tried to communicate with his eyes that he’d tell her everything later. She seemed to understand, though Harry knew she didn’t like it. She gave a loud sigh and let Mrs. Weasley usher her out the door alongside a still-protesting Ginny.

Harry made his way over to the sofa opposite Tonks, where George had taken a seat to watch his mum and Professor Snape go toe to toe. Harry figured he’d better sit down and blend in with the furniture before Snape decided he was being too much of a pushover and made him retreat to the kitchen after all.

“Harry, mate,” George clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder as he sat next to him. “Welcome to the ranks of the illustrious Order of the Phoenix.”

Harry quirked his lips. “Right, thanks,” he mumbled, eyes on Snape as the man spoke in low tones to Mr. Weasley. “Though I’m still not a member, you know.”

“You practically are if _Snape_ invited you to pull up a chair,” George replied and leaned back into the sofa. Harry thought he seemed entirely too relaxed for the occasion.

“So…what’s going on then?” Harry asked quietly. “Your mum said the Order’s on their way back? Is it over then?

“Yeah, mate,” George answered with a grin. “It’s done. We won. There were some injuries, I gather, and they’re still waiting on an all clear in some safe house or other, but Dad talked to them through the floo and they seemed in too good a mood for anything terrible to have happened.”

“Really?” He wanted to be happy, to breathe a sigh of relief, but it seemed too good to be true. Especially since Voldemort was so pleased. “Did they get Remus? Is he okay?”

George had no sooner opened his mouth to reply when the floo flared to life. Harry waited with bated breath, hoping against hope to see Remus’s silver-brown hair and patched jacket. He tried not to be disappointed when a short, stocky blonde in his forties stepped through instead. Harry had seen the man around but couldn’t remember his name. And he didn’t really care at this moment to learn it.

Kingsley Shacklebolt flooed through next, followed by a handful of other familiar faces, before finally Harry got his wish.

Remus was alive!

The man looked weak, like he hadn’t eaten in days, and he had to be helped to a chair. He had dried blood under his nose and fingernails, and Harry was pretty sure from the makeshift sling and the angle of his arm that it was broken. But he was breathing okay, if a little bit shakily, and his legs and torso seemed to be free of serious injury. Harry finally took a long, deep breath and released it, giving in to the urge to grin. It was either that or cry, and he wasn’t about to cry in front of the Order.

It took all of his willpower not to rush through the now crowded room to give his dad’s old friend a bear hug, but he managed…partly because Snape was watching and he wanted to prove to the man that he was grownup enough to be in an Order meeting, but mainly because of Remus’s injuries. He tried to catch his eye instead, and he grinned when the man’s eyes made contact with his. Remus gave a small smile in return, though his gaze was hollow and slightly pained. Harry held in a cringe at what the man must have suffered.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat and drew the attention of the room with a call for order. With a flick of Snape’s wrist, the rest of the whispered conversations in the room fell silent.

To Harry’s surprise, Mr. Weasley, not Snape, opened the meeting. And he didn’t mince words. “It has come to our attention that You-Know-Who may know the location of our headquarters and, as we speak, is gathering his followers to attack.” The room broke out into alarmed murmurs, but Mr. Weasley went on as if uninterrupted. “We do not think it likely that he knows our precise location, but that he knows we are somewhere on or near Grimmauld Place is certain.”

Surprised, Harry swung his head to look at Snape, but the man was watching the other occupants of the room. Harry almost spoke up to correct Mr. Weasley, but he ran through his vision and realized…Voldemort never had thought or said Number 12. So maybe he _didn’t_ know exactly which house they were in? But he might. Shouldn’t they act as if he did know? How could he know they were near here unless he knew they were _here_ here? After all, he wouldn’t be planning an attack unless he knew exactly where to attack.

“Impossible!” piped up Moody. “Albus is Secret-Keeper! He would never betray-”

“No one is suggesting that he has,” Mr. Weasley interrupted Moody. “Which is why we do not believe You-Know-Who knows our precise location. But somehow, he is close. Someone may have been followed to this part of London, perhaps. Due to the timing, however, we must consider the possibility that he somehow discovered some information during this evening’s raid.” There was a clear question in his voice.

Moody broke in again. “I told you it was too easy. We went in, saw Lupin, retrieved him with no more than a token resistance, didn’t lose a single man. How else do you explain their retreat? They wanted something from us, and Merlin knows how they got it, but they did!”

“But how?” asked Shaklebolt reasonably. “They didn’t even get a good look at any of us except for Lupin. They did not obtain any information from us. Even if they could have interrogated us, even if we wanted to share the location of headquarters, it is protected by the Fidelius Charm. They could not even have obtained it from Lupin in the time they had him.”

Several faces swiveled to Remus, and he weakly shook his head. “I told them nothing.” His throat was scratchy, and Harry didn’t want to think about how Voldemort may have tortured him.

“We know that Dumbledore hasn’t been compromised?” piped up a voice from the crowd.

“I spoke to him mere minutes ago,” said Mr. Weasley reassuringly. “He is safe and well. I assured him we’d been successful and that he should continue his business abroad, or he would have joined us.”

“How did you come by this information about headquarters?” Moody asked again, suspicion in his voice.

“The source is reliable,” Mr. Weasley answered, his tone telling them that was all they needed to know. From the way Mr. Weasley’s eyes flickered to Harry before drifting around the room, Harry knew that Snape had told him about the vision. “We don’t know how he knows we are on Grimmauld Place, but we know that he does, or at the very least that he suspects it, and that he plans to attack at dawn. We must decide how to act.”

That they all accepted Mr. Weasley’s words, albeit with grumblings from Moody, made Harry realize how much the Order was used to being given only as much information as they needed to do their jobs. It was as Snape had once told him: _to entrust even the most trustworthy of Order members with every last piece of information would be foolhardy_.

Harry didn’t know if Snape and Mr. Weasley were protecting him by not telling the rest of the Order about his vision, but he was grateful. He didn’t fancy having to talk about it, and he never liked the looks people gave him whenever it was suggested that he was somehow connected to Voldemort more deeply than as just the Boy Who Lived. He didn’t want the Order to look at him like he was possessed or like he might have the makings to be the next Dark Lord.

“So we wait, we evacuate, or we fight,” Shacklebolt listed succinctly. “Which will it be?”

“All of the above,” came another voice. “Evacuate Potter and the Weasley children. Wait for Voldemort to show his hand. Fight if we must.”

Harry felt several pairs of eyes on him when he was mentioned, and he tried not to squirm. He was also acutely aware now of Voldemort’s name being spoken in Snape’s presence, and he held in a wince of sympathy for the physical pain that it must have caused the professor.

He felt Remus’s tired eyes on him and he smiled in his direction, whether to reassure Remus that Harry was fine or to reassure himself that Remus would be, he wasn’t sure.

“I volunteer to take Harry and the other children to safety,” croaked Remus. “I am of little help elsewhere at the moment. Your expertise will be needed here until headquarters is either deemed safe or evacuated,” he said as if to Mr. Weasley but pointedly glanced at Snape. “We have several unplottable safe houses that would be perfectly safe for the short term.”

“But-” Harry started, intending to argue that he wanted to stay, but he cut himself off at a murderous look from Snape. He sat back in the sofa with a halfhearted glare at the professor. He didn’t have to be a genius to know that while Snape might allow him to attend an Order meeting, he certainly wouldn’t let him stay at Grimmauld Place if it was compromised. It was a losing battle. He’d still fight it, of course, but he’d fight it later when nobody except Snape was around to see him lose.

“I will go with them,” said Mrs. Weasley in a surprisingly strong voice. “R-Ron will need to be moved as well,” she said with only a slight tremble and a lift of her chin. “He’ll need looking after.”

Remus tiredly frowned. “Are you sure it is wise to move him? Perhaps you and your son should wait here until we know more.”

“No,” Mr. Weasley chimed in. “Molly is right. It will be safer to move him now.” He and Mrs. Weasley shared an understanding, sorrowful look, and Harry looked away, feeling as if he was intruding upon something private.

Remus didn’t seem fully convinced. He looked as if he might argue, though Harry couldn’t imagine why. If they _had_ to go, then Harry, for one, would feel better were Ron to go with them, and Ginny would appreciate having her mother along. But after a brief hesitation, the man nodded his agreement and smiled in Mrs. Weasley’s direction. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Harry wished they were alone so that he could reassure Remus that Mrs. Weasley and Ron would be safer with them. Or perhaps he was worried that Mrs. Weasley was too emotionally involved to adequately protect them. If it was the latter, Remus was quite mistaken. Harry had no doubt that Mrs. Weasley would make the most formidable enemy in the room if one of her children were threatened.

Mr. Weasley looked to Snape, who looked over Harry with his inscrutable gaze, taking in Harry’s defiant glare and Remus’s haggard form. He couldn’t seem to resist a sneer at Remus before giving Mr. Weasley a single, sharp nod.

“That’s decided then.” Mr. Weasley looked to Remus. “We’ll discuss the location after the meeting.”

“Why not evacuate everyone?” Tonks spoke up for the first time, though her hair turned pink at all the faces swiveled toward her. “Why wait here for a possible attack? If You-Know-Who might know where we are, why not just leave altogether?”

“Abandon headquarters?” Moody asked incredulously, as if she had suggested they forfeit the war. “Give ground to that murderous maniac?” His eye swiveled to her as if sizing her up as a possible spy.

Tonks looked as if she wished she hadn’t asked.

“If You-Know Who is planning to attack, it is not this house alone that is at risk,” answered Mr. Weasley more gently. “Muggles may be harmed, especially if he does not know our exact location. We cannot leave and do nothing to protect them.”

The Order meeting continued like that for some minutes, questions and arguments about what to do, and while he listened, Harry found himself studying Snape. The professor was the picture of calm, standing to one side with arms crossed as if he were a casual observer. Harry knew that Moody, and probably others as well, distrusted Snape. Perhaps that was why he’d had Mr. Weasley lead the meeting? Maybe he knew that any information about Voldemort wouldn’t have been as well received coming from the only ex-Death Eater in the room.

Harry wondered if staying in the shadows was something that Snape liked to do or if he did it out of necessity. He could think of several times when Snape had actively sought recognition - like when he’d thought he’d captured a guilty Sirius and had an Order of Merlin award in sight - but far more often, he played his part well out of the light. Harry was positive that even the Order didn’t know quite how much he had to have done to fight Voldemort while in the dark wizard’s service. Probably only Dumbledore knew. What Harry didn’t know was whether Snape preferred it that way or did it out of necessity.

Well, he could add it to the ever-growing list of mysteries about the professor that Harry was only just beginning to notice and sift through.

The meeting didn’t last long enough for him to dwell on those thoughts. Before he knew it, it was wrapping up, their wait-and-see approach agreed upon and several individuals assigned to covertly watch the street outside for any sign of danger or attack.

As soon as the meeting disbanded, Harry made his way over to Remus. He awkwardly stood to the side while Mrs. Weasley saw to a cut on Remus’s face, but the man raised a weak hand to wave Harry closer.

“How…how are you feeling?” Harry asked quietly as he knelt next to his former professor’s chair, hands grasping hold of the armrest. It was a daft question,considering his injuries, but it’s all he could think to say.

“I’ve had worse,” Remus said tiredly and winced as Mrs. Weasley dabbed bit of healing balm on his cuts.

“Shall we discuss your safe house destination, or are you not done playing the martyr?” Snape sneered as he and Mr. Weasley joined them.

Harry frowned. Snape could be so _nasty_ sometimes. The man _knew_ Remus had just been held captive for days and very likely tortured, and still he was mocking and cruel. Harry knew how awful Snape could be, of course…but it felt different now somehow. In light of their growing closeness over the past weeks, he found himself expecting more out of Snape. For him to be better, maybe? He knew it was silly to expect any person to change overnight. Just because he was offering him Occlumency lessons and advice and protection didn’t mean that he would suddenly turn into a kind, patient, or caring individual.

But apparently it meant that Harry would begin to want him to. And wasn’t _that_ just a recipe for dashed hopes…

He opened his mouth to defend Remus, tell Snape that he was clearly injured, couldn’t he see, and for once in his life to be _nice_ even if he hated somebody, but Remus spoke first. “I’ll take them to the Luftwhite cabin,” he said, giving Snape a pleasantly blank smile as if his dig hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. “It is secluded, and Marla Luftwhite is not a widely known supporter of the Order. It will be more than sufficient to hide away for a few days or until headquarters can be deemed safe again.”

“Sufficient?” sneered Snape before Remus had quite finished. He crossed his arms and stared right back. He didn’t so much as glance Harry’s way. “All that old cabin is _sufficient_ for is getting Potter killed. It may be adequate as an Order way station, but it is hardly warded enough to protect a _dog_ for long.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Snape, trying to decide if he was being compared to a dog, but the man still ignored him.

“Severus does have a point, Remus,” said Mr. Weasley reasonably as he handed a length of gauze to his wife. “Might I suggest the med station near…near the woods.” Harry was certain he had been about to mention a specific wood, but his eyes had shifted to Harry before he’d corrected himself. Harry held in a sigh. Would he _never_ be treated like the near-adult he was? Wouldn’t he _ever_ be entrusted with Order information?

“No,” said Snape so authoritatively that Harry thought for a second that he had read his thoughts. His heart settled down when he realized the man was turning down Mr. Weasley’s suggestion. “They will go to Kneader’s Point.”

“Kneader’s Point?” asked Remus and both Weasleys at the same time and in equally surprised tones, which Harry would have found hilarious had he not been hanging onto every word to understand where exactly each of these locations were.

Snape lifted his chin and adopted his don’t-argue-with-me stance, and Harry couldn’t help a small grin at seeing it used against adults, for once. “It is unplottable, untraceable, warded within and without with various protections, including anti-Apparition wards within a large perimeter. And while remote, it is not so far from civilization that children without Apparition skills could not seek aid if needed. Not to mention that sending the young Mr. Weasley to a safe house overseen by a retired medi-wizard has an obvious advantage. He may be able to find something about the boy’s condition that we have overlooked.”

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley perk up at that suggestion, though she didn’t speak. She moved on to Remus’s unbroken arm, patching up a few cuts.

“But…Kneader?” Remus questioned, frowning. “I’ve never met the man, but I understand him to be rather...set in his ways. Can we trust him?”

“Yes,” answered Snape so unequivocally that Harry found himself wanting to meet whoever this Mr. Kneader was. He’d probably be beyond curious to meet _anyone_ whom Snape trusted, so rarely was that trust given.

Mr. Weasley scratched his chin, deep in thought. “Well. He does have a point, Remus. I’ve never met him myself, don’t even know where his place is, but Albus has mentioned him and thinks highly of him. And if the location is as difficult to get into and out of as Severus says, then you’d have plenty of warning to evacuate or to fend off an attack.”

“We would also have plenty of warning at the cabin,” Remus argued insistently. “If anyone-”

“You would have _no_ warning at that blasted cabin!” Snape spat. “You will not be taking Potter to that dotty woman’s death trap. It is one of the least defensible properties you could possibly select. If you want to go there, be my guest. In which case, _I_ will be taking the boy to Kneader’s Point, where he will be _safe_. Mrs. Weasley and her brood may accompany whom they wish.”

Remus’s lips set in a thin line, and he shot Snape a quick, rather un-Remus-like glare. But judging by the slump of his shoulders, he knew that he was beat. Okay, well…his shoulders were already kind of slumped from weakness. And he probably felt like hell, so Harry figured that if the usually calm man wanted to give into the urge to glare at Snape’s rudeness, it was completely understandable. Harry glared at Snape on a daily basis, after all. But by how determined Remus had been to win the argument, Harry could only imagine that this Marla Luftwhite must be a friend, or perhaps that he didn’t care for what he knew of this Kneader fellow. Which naturally made Harry want to meet both mysterious allies all the more.

The standoff between the men was fascinating Harry, even though it was his fate they were deciding. The adults were all taking very seriously the fact that Dumbledore had charged Snape with Harry’s care. It felt odd, knowing that they all viewed Snape as Harry’s temporary guardian or something…but at the same time, it wasn’t an awful feeling. Sometimes, like right now, his resentment at being talked about and ordered about like a child fell aside and he soaked in the feeling of safety that he’d longed for when he actually was a child. The Dursleys never fought for him, never cared about him enough to argue with anybody else about the best or safest path for him to take. It was kind of nice - in an odd sort of way that was still vaguely insulting - to know that an adult tasked with his care was actually taking his safety and well-being seriously enough to fight for it. He’d never admit it to Snape, of course, but it made him feel sort of warm and cozy inside.

Of course, it also made him want to bristle and argue that he could take care of himself. So there was that.

“Very well,” Remus said finally, reluctantly conceding. “Kneader’s Point it is. We should send word-”

“No,” Snape cut in, and Harry was beginning to feel sorry for Remus, being constantly overruled. “Messages can be intercepted. Kneader is prepared for the random Order guest to drop by unannounced. He has his ways of detecting friend versus foe.” He crooked a finger at Harry to stand and then placed a hand at his back and gave him a small shove toward the door. “Pack your things,” he instructed. “Quickly. Grimmauld Place is most likely still safe, but there is no use tempting fate.”

“Will you be coming too?” Harry asked. “After you’re done here, I mean?” He didn’t like that twinge of knotted emotion that was starting to spread in his belly. It was worry, he knew, and he wasn’t used to worrying about Snape. Maybe about himself when he was faced with Snape, but never worry _for_ Snape. He didn’t want to start the habit now, but his mind and body weren’t cooperating.

Snape gave him an odd searching look, and Harry worried the man wouldn’t answer, but he relented. “Yes. I must stay for now. I know the Dark Lord and his modes of attack. If I stay, then the headmaster need not be pulled away from his work. I will follow when I can.”

“What _is_ the headmaster doing that’s so important, anyway?” he pressed his luck.

“Order business,” Snape said exasperatedly, pointing toward the stairs. “Nothing to do with you. We are in the midst of a war. We have allies abroad. He has things to attend to, as do the rest of the Order when they are not here, and he trusts those of us who remain to hold down the fort, as it may. Now get your things.”

Harry hesitated, considering his resolve to argue with Snape about leaving Grimmauld Place. He also wanted to ask him more about his visions, about whether it really was wise to block them all the time after all. What if they could have obtained more information from Voldemort if he hadn’t been in a rush to leave his mind? But one look at the man’s resolute expression changed his mind about arguing or questioning. Well, that and his curiosity over Kneader, the mysterious medi-wizard who’d gained Snape’s rarely given trust and who might be able to help with Ron. Oh alright, and that nice warm feeling of being protected that he’d deny until his dying day that he’d liked.

So even though he willingly obeyed Snape’s order, he did so with an exaggerated air of reluctance.

A boy - practically a man - had to have his pride, after all.

* * *

All right, so he didn’t obey _right away_. He figured he owed it to the girls to stop by the kitchen first. They’d want to know about Remus’s safe return, after all. And the adults were so busy patching each other up and chatting about the success of their rescue mission and the threat of Voldemort’s possible attack that he wondered when they’d pause to remember that Ginny and Hermione needed time to pack as well.

“When are we leaving?” Hermione asked with wide eyes after he’d filled them in and reassured them that Remus was fine. “Now?”

Harry shrugged. “Snape told me to pack my things, so I assume we’re leaving soon after we’re ready to go. Voldemort isn’t planning to attack until dawn, but there’s no use tempting fate,” he said, liking how Snape’s words rolled off his tongue.

“Just when this house started to get interesting…” grumbled Ginny as she stood from the table.

It didn’t take them very long to gather their things, though Harry admittedly wasn’t very careful about tossing his belongings into his trunk. He had been at Grimmauld Place for almost three weeks, after all, and he had thought he would still be here when they left for the Hogwarts Express in another week and a half. Even while sharing a room with the twins, he’d spread out his belongings rather more than he’d thought. One last glance under the bed, a request for a shrinking spell from Dobby, and he was jogging down the stairs with his trunk safely stowed in his pocket.

Most of the adults were gone when he returned to the drawing room, though Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys were likely upstairs preparing Ron for travel. Only Moody and Remus remained, and Remus hardly counted, as he was fast asleep in the same chair he’d been deposited in earlier, his head lolling forward and slightly to the side.

It was obvious to Harry that Remus wasn’t going to be much good at protecting them on this journey. But then, Moody seemed ready and waiting for something. Maybe he was going with them too?

Before he could ask, Snape was in the doorway. Seeing he had Harry’s attention, he crooked a finger and whipped around toward the stairs. Harry followed him, shaking his head with a wry grin. One of these days, Harry was going to insist on a proper summons. Something along the lines of, “Mr. Potter, I humbly request your presence upstairs, if you would be so kind,” complete with a “please” and “thank you.” Not this constant finger crooking and assuming that Harry was jumping into step right behind him.

When they reached the laboratory, Snape led him to the counter where several potions vials were lined up.

“Dreamless Sleep,” Snape said straightaway, pointing at two purple vials. “Extra, in case I am unable to join you for a while. I will trust you to ration them out appropriately.” He looked at Harry, waiting for acknowledgment, so Harry nodded. No problem. He’d already been doing that, after all. He still had several doses left in his trunk.

“You think you might not follow us to the safe house?” He asked, hoping that he’d kept any trace of disappointment out of his voice. “You said you were only staying here until after the attack.”

“I plan to join you once we determine that headquarters is secure,” Snape assured him. “However, in times of war, it is best to be prepared.” He pointed to a clear vial. “A new variation on a standard headache draft. If it works properly, it should target the pain caused by your curse scar. I only had time to experiment with the one variation, so I cannot be certain it will be wholly effective. At any rate, it will do no harm.”

“You made it for me?” Harry asked, surprised and also touched. “When did you have time to do that?”

“I brewed it this afternoon,” Snape said, waving it off as nothing to fuss about. “I can offer you nothing to ward off another vision or intrusion into your mind. Only Occlumency can do that. Keep Occluding, from the time you wake until the time you go to bed,” he told him so sternly that Harry immediately nodded his agreement. “If, however, such a thing happens again, this draft may alleviate the resulting pain caused by your scar.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured. Nobody had ever spent the time to invent a remedy specifically for him before. Maybe he was strange for thinking so much of it, but it went on the list of one of his favorite presents. Not quite up there with his photo album or Firebolt, or even his mum’s letter and rock. But it was still on the list, because it was so useful and it was just for _him_.

Snape put all three vials into a small drawstring bag, which he handed to Harry. He then reached into his robe and drew out a small silver ring. Harry eyed it curiously.

“This is charmed,” Snape explained, holding it out to Harry and waiting for him to take it. Harry pocketed the bag of potions and cautiously turned the ring over in his hands, examining it. There was nothing very special about it except for a thin decorative line of green. It looked almost like ivy encircling the band, and it didn’t escape Harry’s notice that it was in Slytherin colors. “I expect for you to wear it until term starts,” Snape went on. “Should trouble arise, press your thumb to the band for three seconds. I will be alerted that you have need of assistance.”

Harry nodded, his eyes still on the ring. He hadn’t expected Snape to go out of his way to see to Harry’s welfare like this - he’d thought the professor would shoo him away to the safe house and that would be that - and he was feeling a little overwhelmed. He didn’t know how to respond, so he covered his gratitude with a joke. “You were all out of red and gold rings, then?”

Snape gave a half snort, as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh. “Fresh out.” He smirked. “Try some more elegant colors on for size, Potter. You may find that they suit you more than you think.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Is this one of your attempts to make a Slytherin out of me?”

“Are you refusing to wear the ring?” Snape raised an eyebrow in return and no doubt to better effect.

“No,” Harry answered. To prove it, he started to put it on, but then he realized he had no idea on which finger one was supposed to wear a ring. Jewelry wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. He looked up. “Does it matter which finger?”

Snape shook his head, watching him with that steady, unreadable gaze.

Okay, then. He put it on his right ring finger, supposing that if it was called a ring finger, he may as well go with it. The ring must have been charmed to fit any wearer, for it tightened comfortably around his finger the moment he put it on. He studied it for a few seconds. It was a small ring, too small to be considered manly per se, but it was plain and unobtrusive in a way that didn’t make him feel too embarrassed to be wearing jewelry. Especially as it meant he had a way to call for help if he needed it.

“Thanks, professor,” he said, looking up at Snape. He grinned, deciding it was okay to let some of his gratitude show. “It’s great. Really.”

Snape gave him a brisk nod and gestured toward the door. “The others should be ready to leave by now.”

Though Harry wasn’t one to gush, he was glad that he hadn’t made more of a deal about the gifts. Snape didn’t look _too_ uncomfortable at the moment, but he also didn’t look as if he would know what to do with effusive thanks. But then, maybe he didn’t have much experience being on the receiving end of gratitude. Dumbledore probably thanked him for things, and maybe his Slytherins or the occasional professor, but those were mainly niceties, weren’t they? Most other people had understandable reasons to either hate or distrust him, not to thank him. When it came to real, personal gratitude, maybe Snape was uncomfortable with it for the simple reason that it was so foreign to him.

Well, the man might have to get used to it if he kept surprising Harry with these small moments of unexpected kindness.

Harry grinned and shook his head exasperatedly at the professor’s back as they made their way down the stairs. Snape wasn’t fooling him, he decided. Yes, he could be downright nasty when he disliked someone, and sure, he still didn’t know all the ins and outs of human emotions and social interactions, but deep down, Harry was realizing, the man had a heart. For some reason, he just didn’t want anyone to know it.


	33. Kneader’s Point

Harry didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this, this… _hovel_. A place that had a name, even one as unassuming as Kneader’s Point, had to at least be grand enough to deserve being named, right?

Apparently not.

Although, come to think of it, the Burrow wasn’t grand and it had a name. So really, Harry shouldn’t be too surprised.

They had flooed away from Grimmauld Place to a plain, deserted cabin, then taken a Portkey to a sandy beach - something Harry wished he’d been warned about, as now he had shoes full of sand. It was mostly dark, with only the moonlight and the adults’ lit wands to guide them, which made traipsing through the sand even more difficult. But he could still see enough of the house to be unimpressed.

Mrs. Weasley took the lead, marching toward the small, rundown house from their Portkey arrival spot. Ron was floating beside her atop a thin mattress, and Ginny followed close behind in case he needed steadying. Harry and Hermione trailed behind them, supporting a still-weak Remus on either side. Harry had been correct in his guess that Moody was to accompany them to the safe house. The vigilant wizard took up the rear, his wand out and ready in case of any sign of danger.

Even though he couldn’t see every detail, the moonlight was bright enough for him to see that the small house was perched on a bluff overlooking the beach on one side and a rocky meadow on the other. He thought the scenery would probably be beautiful in the daytime…though the rundown mishmash of stone and brick in its midst might prove to be an eyesore. The house was short and squat, not tall and lopsided like the Burrow, and Harry didn’t know how the seven of them would have room to stay there for any length of time. Nine, come to think of it, assuming the mysterious Kneader was there and that Snape would be following soon.

“How’s the arm?” Harry asked Remus softly as they navigated around a particularly large rock. His arm looked okay, so somebody must have tried to heal it, but it had pained the man the whole way here, making it difficult to support him. Unfortunately, his legs were still unsteady, making the support necessary.

Remus gave him a small smile. “Much better than before. Don’t worry yourself about me, Harry. Professor Snape says this Kneader fellow is a decent Healer. Perhaps he can see to it.”

“And look at Ron too?” He voiced the hopes that had been running through his mind since Snape had brought up the idea.

“We’ll make sure of it,” the man said in a tight voice that was probably meant to be reassuring, but he had stumbled over a rock just then, wrenching his arm.

“Sorry!” Hermione cried from his other side. “I didn’t see it in time!”

Remus merely grunted, and they continued toward the house.

As they stepped foot on a crooked stone path leading up to the small house, a man emerged from the front door. He stood in the light of the porch, and Harry could see that he was on the short side, thin, and older than Snape but not nearly so old as Dumbledore. He guessed that he was possibly in his fifties or sixties. As they got closer, he saw hair that was mostly silver but sprinkled here and there with the brown that it used to be. For someone who presumably lived alone in a rundown shack, he was surprisingly fastidiously dressed. Harry could see the shine of his neat shirt buttons and his polished shoes from here.

The man waited calmly on the front stoop for the travelers to reach him, studying each in turn with a keen eye, and at least one piece of the puzzle of this Kneader fellow drifted into place for Harry. It was apparent by this man’s hawk-like gaze that he was both observant and intelligent. Which made sense, as Snape wouldn’t trust anyone he thought was stupid.

“Ephraim Kneader?” asked Mrs. Weasley, stepping up to the porch.

“I am he,” Kneader said politely in a slightly hoarse voice and waited in silence for introductions.

“My name is Molly Weasley.” She said as she climbed the few steps to the porch and extended her hand, which he took. “We’ve come from headquarters. It may have been compromised. Severus Snape suggested that we might be safe here for the time being.”

Kneader’s eyes flickered at the mention of Snape, but he otherwise made no acknowledgment of the man, to Harry’s disappointment. Now that he had a tiny piece of the puzzle, he wanted to put the whole puzzle together. “Weasley, eh? I’ve heard of you and yours,” he said. “Good folk.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled, a tinge of pink coloring her cheeks at the compliment to her family. “Severus asked me to give this to you.” She handed a small white envelope to Kneader, which he took, and then she introduced the other adults, which Harry barely took note of, as he was sorely wishing that he could read the contents of Snape’s letter. “This is Remus Lupin and Alastor Moody.” She gestured to the men toward the rear of the small group.

“Moody,” Kneader nodded as if they’d met before, then shifted his attention to Remus. “Lupin. I’ve heard of you too. Good thinker.”

“Severus didn’t say that, I assume,” Remus said with a faint smirk.

“Not as such, no,” Kneader answered, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But where are my manners?” the man asked and waved them all forward. “Come in, come in. Put the poor lad in the first room there and we’ll see to him first, why don’t we?” He waved Mrs. Weasley, Ron and Ginny ahead of him, then took over the duty of helping Remus stumble into the house.

As soon as Harry was on the porch, he toed off a shoe to knock out all of the sand. As run down as the house was, it would be rude to track all of that dirt in. That was something Dudley might do, but something that Harry had learned to equate with an irate Aunt Petunia. But as soon as he turned the shoe upside-down, he realized there was no sand to speak of. It was all gone. He exchanged a glance with Hermione, who appeared quite pleased at whatever magical spell was in effect. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was going to ask this Kneader wizard how the spell was done first chance she got. At Moody’s impatient huff, he also realized that they were obviously the only two who hadn’t expected some sort of sand evaporating spell. He hurriedly put his shoe back on and they followed the others.

Only, as soon he stepped into the house, Harry found himself with a face full of bushy brown hair. “Oof!”

“Oh. Sorry,” Hermione said distractedly from where she’d ground to a halt. She stepped forward slowly, her mouth agape as she took in their surroundings.

As soon as she moved, he could see why she had stopped, for he stopped in surprise too. The inside of the house was magnificent, nothing like the outside would suggest. They’d stepped from a rickety front porch to a beautiful white marble floor. Beyond the entry way was a large room with numerous comfortable-looking sofas and chairs, a rather impressive fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall that he imagined had an amazing view of the ocean during the day. An archway led to what looked like a kitchen, and while he was almost surprised not to see a grand staircase, there were more doors leading off from the entry way and living room than he could count. He could see right away that his fears of a tiny hovel were unfounded. Thanks to whatever wizard space spells were in this place, they’d each have their own bedroom, with room to spare.

Shaking his head to clear it, he followed Hermione to the first door off the entry way, which was open to reveal a sort of hospital room. Cabinets covered the walls, containing medical supplies and plenty of multi-colored potions. There were three beds against the wall. Mrs. Weasley was settling Ron on one, fussing over him and tucking his still body under the covers, while Kneader helped Remus to another.

Behind Harry, Moody checked the lock on the front door and then headed toward the kitchen, probably to make sure the rest of the house was secure.

“Is anybody else injured?” asked Kneader, giving them another once-over now that they were closer. Harry knew the moment the man noticed his scar, his widened eyes and double take giving him away. He stared at Harry in surprise but didn’t say anything. Harry tried not to fidget under the attention. As much as it should be old hat by now, his fame always took getting used to after a summer of being surrounded by either Muggles who didn’t know he was famous or friends who took his fame for granted.

“The other children and I are fine,” Mrs. Weasley said, sad eyes scanning over Ron once more. She looked up. “Remus was treated, but he could benefit from an actual healer’s eye. My son…he’s…” she sniffed and looked away. “He’s not in need of treatment so much as…care. Perhaps the other children could take to the kitchen for a bite to eat while I explain?”

“Help yourselves to whatever you find,” Kneader nodded without taking his eyes off of Harry, and Harry quickly ducked out of the room to escape the man’s stare.

The kitchen was as magnificent as the rest of the house, and it was so immaculately clean that Harry wondered if Kneader ever actually used it. After they raided the fridge and cupboard for a small snack, it was a relief to finally sit, even if it was at the largest dining table he’d ever seen.

“I wonder how many visitors he gets,” Hermione whispered from across the table. There wasn’t truly a need to whisper, but Harry understood why she did. The huge room they were in, the grand nature of the dark wood furniture and marble floors, inspired a certain amount of awe in all of them.

“I wonder how many house-elves he has,” Ginny said in an equally low tone, and Hermione swiveled to look at the girl next to her.

“You think he has house-elves? Why?”

Ginny stared, then waved her hands about as if to say that it was obvious.

“He’s a wizard,” Hermione sniffed. “He doesn’t need house-elves to keep house, no matter how nice a house it is.”

Ginny made a humming noise, which sounded to Harry like a wordless _whatever youuu sa-aaay_ , then piled some fruit and crackers on a small plate and wandered back to the hospital room. Hermione munched on a cracker, eyeing the kitchen suspiciously, as if watching it long enough would tell her whether or not house-elves were lurking about.

“Hermione,” he said to get her attention. He had been mulling over something, and now that they were alone… “I’ve been thinking…you know, you’re a really good tutor.”

“Oh. Thank you, Harry,” She beamed, though she looked a bit confused by the sudden compliment.

“And I’ve been thinking a lot lately…about NEWT levels.” As soon as he mentioned their NEWTs, her confusion melted away and she sat at full attention. He grinned at her overt willingness to talk about academics. “Do you know if a student can sit a NEWT exam for a class they didn’t actually take?”

Hermione looked taken aback. “Well. Um. I haven’t ever thought to find out.” Harry was certain she hadn’t. When had Hermione ever consider _not_ taking a class? “It is _possible_ …” she said slowly, thinking. “I mean, NEWTs are to test your level of competency in a given subject. Who’s to say one has to learn it in a classroom? I learn more from books than from Professor Binns all the time.” She gave Harry an apologetic look for disrespecting a teacher, though Harry didn’t know why she should bother herself about it. Binns _was_ a pretty awful teacher. “It would definitely be possible, if difficult, for a student to pass the exam from prior knowledge or independent study. Only, I’d need to do some research to find out for certain if Hogwarts rules allow for it. Why do you ask?”

“Potions.”

Hermione understood right away, her face morphing into pure delight. “Snape won’t let you into his class but you want to try for the NEWT anyway,” she stated.

Harry nodded. “I want to be an Auror, Hermione. Now more than ever. I’m sick and tired of sitting on the sidelines, waiting for other people to fight the war or keep things from me even though I’m at the center of what Voldemort’s doing to people. I want to have a say in my own future. The only way to get there is with the right NEWTs, and Potions is one of them.”

“And if you _can_ sit the exam without taking the class, you need a tutor to do it,” Hermione filled in.

Harry nodded again. “I got an Exceeds Expectations on my OWL, so I’m not completely pants at it, but it’s not my best subject either. From what Snape says, sixth year is going to be harder than any year yet. I don’t think I can manage to study it on my own without somebody who’s taking Snape’s class and is willing to share assignments and guide me through the toughest practical bits.”

“I’m in,” Hermione said immediately. She was sitting up straight in her chair, practically bouncing with excitement at the thought of covert studies. “I have my textbook with me, of course.” She patted her pocket where she carried her shrunken trunk. “I’ve already read it and finished the summer assignments. You can look it over if you like, get familiar with it. We probably won’t be able to find out until we’re back at Hogwarts if it’s possible to sit the exam, but if you don’t begin right away, you’ll fall behind.”

Harry gave her a huge grin. “Thanks, Hermione.” He didn’t enjoy the thought of more studying over the following week and a half before they returned to Hogwarts, but he was determined to do it. He’d found the will to get serious about learning Occlumency, and that same will was going to help him to become an Auror.

“You know…” Hermione tempered her excitement to give him a hesitant look. “I hate to even bring this up, I know you hate it, but if it doesn’t work out…the Auror program would probably make an exception for you, of all people.”

“I know.” Harry pulled a face. “But I don’t want to do it that way. I want to earn my way in.”

Hermione nodded with a smile. She’d seemed to expect that. “Another thing. Assuming you even _can_ sit the exam, there’s one more possible hitch in our plan.”

“What’s that?”

“We’d need use of the Potions lab and ingredients outside of class time,” Hermione said rather apologetically. “There are some things we might not be able to buy, not on our own, and supplies for important potions you’ll need to learn. I know he won’t let you into his class, but we’re still going to need Snape’s permission to do this.”

Harry slumped down in his chair. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d imagined that they could study in the common room or in the Room of Requirement. And they still could, some of the time. But if he was to properly learn NEWT-level Potions, and well enough to pass the exams at the end of seventh year, there was no way around it. He’d have to get permission from Snape to use the lab from time to time. Great. Just great. He exhaled, feeling his dream ebbing away with each bit of breath that left his body.

The asking-Snape part wasn’t even the main problem, not since they’d been getting along better. Even though Harry would have to swallow his pride, he knew Snape wouldn’t kill him now just for asking. The permission part was the problem. The chance that the man would ever, _ever_ say yes was next to impossible. Snape was extremely protective of his classroom and ingredients stores. With the exception of detentions, he’d only ever heard of Snape allowing after-hours lab access to his upper level Slytherin students, and even then only when the professor was present. (Not that most people complained about that bit of favoritism. Hardly any non-Slytherin students would care to spend more time with Snape than necessary, after all.) Even Harry’s _Remedial Potions_ lessons had been fake, and probably any students who’d heard about it figured that Dumbledore had forced Snape’s hand. Which, in a way, he had, with the Occlumency lessons…

The salient point was that Snape certainly wouldn’t think of allowing lab access to a Gryffindor who hadn’t earned a satisfactory grade on his OWL and who wasn’t even a student in his regular Potions class. Harry’s stroke of brilliancy had hit a brick wall, and he felt a wave of disappointment crashing over him. It was like getting his OWL results all over again.

Hermione, perceptive as usual, reached across to pat his arm. “It’s always possible that he’ll say yes. I saw how he was with you earlier. When I found Snape and told him you’d collapsed, that I thought it was Voldemort, he dropped everything to get to you. And I mean _everything_. Didn’t even spell his potion first, or secure his lab, and you know how he is when he has potions brewing. And then you trusted him, let him into your mind without a second thought. Things are different now. He’s obviously changed his mind about you, and I think you have about him as well. I think…I think he even cares about you, Harry. Cares about what happens to you, at any rate, and that’s far more than before, right? Maybe he’ll care about your future too. Enough to say yes.”

Harry was doubtful. He also wasn’t sure if he agreed with all that Hermione had said. There was some truth to it, certainly, but she was seeing that truth with rose-colored glasses. Snape did seem to have overcome some of his hangups, and he didn’t overtly dread Harry’s company anymore. He was also taking his role as Harry’s summer guardian seriously, going to great lengths to see to his safety. But to _care_ care? About Harry himself? That was taking things a bit too far. She looked so hopeful though, and he didn’t really want to talk right then about whatever was going on between him and Snape, so he changed the subject.

And, as anyone even remotely acquainted with Hermione knew, the best way to deflect was to ask her about homework.

Between Charms and Transfiguration, the subjects of Snape and Potions were completely abandoned.

* * *

“So. Harry Potter, eh? Never thought I’d be hosting the likes of you here,” were the first words Kneader said when he came into the kitchen after a short while.

Harry couldn’t tell by his words if the man meant to be friendly and welcoming or the exact opposite. If Snape had said those words to someone, it would have meant something along the lines of _why in heaven’s name was I cursed with your wretchedly bothersome and undeservedly famous presence?_ Of course, Snape would have made his meaning clear with a sneer. Kneader’s face was neutral, maybe even calculating, his hawk-eyes still surveying them, no doubt taking everything in. Still, knowing that Kneader and Snape knew each other, that Snape trusted this man, Harry wondered if they also shared a common aversion to all things Harry Potter.

But his own uncertainty was no excuse for rudeness. Harry awkwardly stood up to properly greet their host. “It’s, um, nice to meet you, Mr. Kneader, sir,” he said with a polite dip of his head. He couldn’t help that he’d probably come across as both awkward and wary. When Kneader didn’t answer right away, he filled the silence with, “This is my friend, Hermione Granger.”

“Miss Granger,” Kneader said and gave _her_ a smile, which Harry took as an answer to his question. Kneader didn’t like Harry. Or at the very least, he was prepared to not like him, once Harry did or said something to prove himself unlikeable. And all at once, Harry wanted to ask Kneader just how well he knew Snape, how much they might have talked, how much Snape might have told him about his least favorite student, the bane of his Hogwarts existence.

Because if he had to start all over again with another authority figure who hated his guts for no good reason, he was going to go insane by the time this summer officially ended.

“Mimsy!” Kneader called out, and a small house-elf popped into the kitchen, large eyes blinking at the visitors. Harry was so relieved to have Kneader’s eyes off him that he paid no mind to Hermione’s gasp of dismay.

“You must be tired from your journey,” Kneader was saying. “Mimsy will show you to your rooms. If you need anything tonight, let her know. As for tomorrow, the house and grounds are protected. Anti-Apparition wards extend as far as the buoy in the water and the oak tree on the knoll. Don’t go past either one and you’ll be right as rain.” He turned to go.

“Wait!” called Harry and the man looked back around, eyebrows raised in a silent question. “Mr. Kneader, how…how’s Remus? He was sort of…erm, tired, and roughed up…and his arm…” he trailed off lamely. He didn’t know why the man made him quite so nervous, but he sounded like a right idiot. This was _not_ the first impression he’d wanted to make on the man who might be able to tell him things about Snape.

“Ah, yes. Your Mr. Lupin,” answered Kneader calmly. “I’ve healed his injuries. He’ll be out for quite a while after the fairly potent sleeping draught I’ve given him. Best do without him for the time being.” And with that, he retreated from the kitchen.

“Well,” Hermione said after a beat of silence. “Real social fellow, isn’t he?”

“Maybe he’s not used to much company?” Harry asked with a halfhearted shrug.

“With this large house, all set up as an Order safe house?” Hermione asked skeptically. “And space for so many guests to sleep?”

Harry kept any more thoughts to himself, because his intuition was often quite good, and it was saying that the man’s eagerness to avoid them came down to wanting to avoid _him_ in particular. He didn’t know why that bothered him. Usually he’d shrug it off if a random stranger didn’t like him. It came with being famous for nothing he could help, after all. But this wasn’t a random stranger, was it? This was quite possibly an all too rare friend of Snape’s. Or at least an ally. He held some of the clues in the mystery that was Severus Snape, and it was looking very likely that the man wasn’t going to be inclined to share any of them with Harry.

He sighed and turned his attention to the little house-elf.

She was standing still in the center of the kitchen, staring wide-eyed at them, but she didn’t seem worried or afraid. More…curious. And patient. It appeared that she was going to wait quietly for them to indicate when they were ready to leave.

“Um, Mimsy, was it?” Harry ventured. “About those rooms…”

“Yes, sir. Mimsy is happy to show you to your rooms, sir,” she chirped politely and cheerfully led them to rooms around the perimeter of the living room, helpfully unshrinking their trunks in the process. Hermione’s was on the opposite side of the large room from his. He gave her a small wave but didn’t wait to see her settled, didn’t even bother to study his room other than to note that it was decorated in shades of blue and contained a simple bed, dresser, and night stand. He just mumbled his intent to go to bed, closed the door, toed off his shoes, flopped onto his back on the surprisingly comfortable mattress, and stared at the ceiling.

He didn’t intend to sleep yet. Thoughts of Grimmauld Place raced like wildfire through his mind. Was it safe? Would Voldemort breach its walls? Would he try and be unable to make it in? Or was Snape right that he only knew generally where they were, but not about number 12? He wanted to know if Snape and the rest of the Order were going to be safe, if Dobby was still as sad as he’d been when Harry had said goodbye to him, if Mr. Weasley and the twins were being careful for Mrs. Weasley’s sake.

It was killing him not to have the answers to his questions.

He also thought more about his visions, wishing that he hadn’t managed to break himself away from Voldemort’s mind. Maybe they’d have known more about Voldemort’s intentions if he’d stayed longer. Maybe he’d have known if Voldemort knew exactly where they were and _how_ he’d known it.

He sighed miserably. He hated being kept away from the action, forced to hide out and wait for answers while the Order took on the dangerous work of protecting them and fighting Voldemort.

Eager for a distraction, he took the packet of potions from his pocket, studying each in turn before placing them on his nightstand and studying his new ring instead. He hadn’t thought of Snape as _thoughtful_ before, but even if the ring didn’t qualify - it was strategic to have a way to call for help, after all - the headache potion certainly did. Snape had developed a potion _just for him_ , a potion that wasn’t necessary but that helped with the pain. It was a kindness that he hadn’t expected. It occurred to him that he’d better wipe thoughts of gratitude from his mind before their next Occlumency lesson. If Snape knew how much the gift meant to Harry, he’d try to pull away again.

And Harry was willing to admit to himself that he didn’t want Snape to pull away. He didn’t want to lose any more people, even someone he had such a tenuous a bond with as his Occlumency teacher.

His fingers reached into his other pocket, the pads of his thumbs rubbing over the smooth surface of his mum’s stone. It helped, this connection with his mum. It calmed him, if not completely. The photograph he’d found was still in his pocket, and he pulled it out to distract himself from thoughts of Voldemort and losing people. Sirius and James waved out at him in their Quiddditch robes. Sirius playfully shoved James out of the frame and struck a pose. Harry smiled, imagining what their boyhood days would have been like. The days of the Marauders. He’d give about anything to have a time machine. Or maybe to be able to view more memories of what his dad had been like - better memories than that one of Snape’s that he’d seen. He never again wanted to see the shameful way his dad and godfather had picked on their classmate. Maybe Remus had some nicer ones that he’d be willing to share. Harry had no idea how easy it was to find a Pensieve to use though. Were they rare? Would Dumbledore let him use his for something so sentimental and unnecessary?

Probably not. Dumbledore was the one who had warned him that it wasn’t good to dwell on dreams and forget to live. If he asked, he’d probably only be treated to a grandfatherly chat about how it was okay to miss his parents but not healthy to obsess over his loss.

So much for that idea. Pictures would have to be enough. He sighed again and watched as James shoved Sirius back, toppling him over. Both boys started laughing, and Lily rolled her eyes at them in the background. Harry smiled. Pictures _would_ be enough. Not as good as having them here, but it was enough to be able to remember them by. And it was nice to be able to think of them this way, when they were happiest.

Sirius put James into a play choke-hold and they wrestled on the ground. Lily shared an exasperated look with her friend, who sneered at James and Sirius and -

Harry shot up on his bed and held the photograph closer to his eyes. He _knew_ that sneer. He knew that _face!_ He’d seen that scrawny boy in Legilimency lessons - in Snape’s head, in his memories of long ago.

It was Snape!

_Snape_ was sitting on the grass with _Harry’s mum_. He _whispered_ something into her _ear_. They started _laughing_ together.

They were interacting as if they were _friends_. _Close_ friends.

Snape!

With Lily!

He stared at the photograph in stunned disbelief before a random thought had him scrambling for his trunk. He carefully pulled out his mum’s letter from between the pages of a book where he’d stashed it.

He re-read it, poring over possible clues.

_…sometimes I wouldn’t mind being an only child like you._

_You know you love school as much as I do…_

_Maybe next time your papa will let you come with us. …you can pretend you’ve been to the beach too._

_Your friend…Lily_

It wasn’t much to go on, but it _could_ fit with what he knew of Snape. He hadn’t seen any evidence of Snape having siblings. He _might_ be an only child. He certainly wasn’t good at sharing, Harry thought with a smirk. He _was_ intelligent and studious, probably the type to have loved school and learning. And thinking back to what little he’d seen, Harry didn’t think that Snape’s had been a happy childhood. Having a strict father who wouldn’t let him go to the beach fit perfectly with the scenes he’d glimpsed in his mind.

Could _Snape_ have been the recipient of Lily’s letter?

In context, it made so much more sense that they had been friends and that Lily had written to him than that Snape had randomly stumbled upon a letter from Lily and held onto it in case he ever stopped hating Harry enough to pass it on to him. It would also explain why he hadn’t given Harry the first page of the letter, if that page had Snape’s name on it, or other personal details he didn’t want Harry to know.

He wanted to jump up and down like a little kid in excitement at how well it fit together. It occurred to him that finding out Snape and his mum had been friends should have horrified him, but instead he felt such a sense of excitement and nervous anticipation that he couldn’t keep still. He paced back and forth in the room.

Snape knew Lily. They had been friends. They’d laughed together. It was highly possible that they’d exchanged letters. If he was the person she’d written to, then they’d lived close enough to each other to study together during holidays. _Finally_ he knew someone who could tell him more about his mum!

He skidded to a halt, sudden disappointment edging out the excitement. Snape wouldn’t tell him _anything_ about his mum, he realized. The professor was insanely guarded about his personal life. He wouldn’t even tell Harry what books he liked to read or whether he so much as exchanged greetings with other members of the Hogwarts faculty. He’d never so much as hinted that he’d known Lily in school, much less that they’d been close friends. No chance was he going to magically become forthcoming and actually volunteer any details or stories about her.

Harry lowered himself to the floor in dejection. _Why_ couldn’t his parents have been friends with nice, normal people? No, they had to be friends with an emotionally stunted Azkaban prisoner and a traitorous Animagus rat and a reclusive werewolf, and now he could add an emotionally repressed ex-Death Eater spy to the mix.

He threw the photograph and letter across the room in frustration, then immediately thought better of it, retrieving both and checking them for damage. He carefully put both inside his book and then flopped dramatically back onto the bed.

He held up the heart-shaped stone and studied every smooth surface, every worn edge. Whether or not it had been gifted to Snape, this stone had once been carefully selected by Harry’s mum, held in her fingers. And guarded spy or not, Snape held secrets that Harry now desperately wanted to know. It had been a game before, trying to get Snape to admit to friendships or hobbies or anything that didn’t fit Harry’s old view of the man.

The games were over. Now Harry was playing for real. One way or another - even if he had to bide his time and practice his mental skills and eventually Legilimize the memories out of the man - Harry was going to find out about Snape’s friendship with Lily Evans.

He just hoped he could find out what he wanted to know without Snape going back to hating him.


	34. Friends and Enemies

Eighteen hours, sixteen minutes, and some-odd seconds had passed since they’d left Grimmauld Place. Harry knew because the large wall clock on the living room wall was hard to miss, and he’d been watching it for most of the day.

Still no Snape.

When he wasn’t watching the clock, he was watching out the wall of windows for Snape’s approaching figure or pretending to read his Herbology textbook while actually watching the clock or the windows.

The professor really should have arrived by now. Or at least sent word.

He felt eyes on him and looked up to see Kneader studying him from the opposite sofa. Harry quickly looked back down at his book, still feeling wary and self-conscious around the man. He hadn’t exchanged more than cordial pleasantries with their host over breakfast, though he’d listened as Hermione had engaged the man in a lively discussion about the pros and cons of a career in mediwizardry. She’d clearly impressed Kneader with her intelligence and curiosity, and right after breakfast he’d handed her a stack of books to leaf through. She had immediately sat on the floor at the coffee table with books spread out before her, and she’d barely moved since. Judging by her expression, she was in heaven.

Ginny and Mrs. Weasley were together in Ron’s room, and Moody, who had stayed the night, was somewhere outside “checking the perimeter.” Remus sat snoozing on the other side of Harry’s sofa. The poor man had woken up only long enough to yawn his way over to the sofa and fall asleep again after drinking a suspicious-looking draught from Kneader. Harry almost asked their host if it was really necessary to have given Remus such potent sleeping draughts, but he still was convinced that the man didn’t like him. It was just as well, as he wasn’t feeling very talkative anyway.

But then, none of them had been except for Hermione. As soon as she’d realized that their host knew things that she wanted to know, she’d taken advantage of the opportunity to learn from him. And now from his books.

Harry’s gaze drifted to the clock and to the windows again. He saw the same scene as usual. A long, empty expanse of beach. No Snape.

“I’m certain he’s all right, Harry,” Hermione’s voice broke the silence, startling him in the process.

It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to ask ‘who?’ but he figured there was no point feigning ignorance. Hermione was too perceptive to believe that Harry wasn’t worried about Snape. And he _was_ worried about the professor. About Mr. Weasley and the others too. He needed to know that they were okay, that Voldemort hadn’t hurt any of them while trying to find Harry.

Of course, he was also eager to talk to Snape about Lily. But he wasn’t ready to confide in anyone else until he learned more from Snape himself. Not that he knew exactly how he was going to go about asking something like that of the closed book that was Snape…

Well, he’d cross that bridge when he got there. For now, he needed to know that Snape and the others were safe.

“I mean it, Harry,” said Hermione, and he realized that she’d taken his silence for doubt. “Professor Snape is more than capable of defending himself against Death Eaters. He probably knows all their tricks. And the Order had advance warning. Besides, they must know how to get a message to us here if anything had gone wrong.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sure you’re right.” Harry nodded and smiled at Hermione to reassure her that she’d reassured him even though he didn’t feel at all reassured. This was _Voldemort_ they were talking about. Snape and the Order were formidable, but…against _Voldemort_? Maybe the Order couldn’t get a message through because they’d been attacked so suddenly, so thoroughly that they couldn’t. Or maybe they wouldn’t try, in case Voldemort had a way to track messages.

Harry’s eyes wandered back to the windows and he ignored Hermione’s sigh.

“You’re both sixth years, eh?” asked Kneader. Harry looked at him but let Hermione answer. He figured he’d only been included in the question out of politeness anyway.

Hermione nodded proudly. “We’re starting our NEWT-levels this year.”

“Ah.” He smiled at her. “Tough year, that. You won’t be able to slack on your studies from here on out.”

Harry snorted, then flushed when Kneader’s hawk eyes darted to him. “Hermione’s the smartest witch in our year,” he rushed to explain. “I don’t think she knows how to slack.” He smiled to show that he meant it as a compliment, but his discomfort around the man probably made it look more like a grimace.

“Harry’s doing well too!” Hermione chimed in, her cheeks pink with pleasure at Harry’s praise. “And he does have more extracurriculars than I do, with Quidditch and leading our Defense club. Not to mention extra lessons with Professor Snape.”

“Severus is giving you extra lessons, is he?” Kneader raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. Too much surprise. Yep, Harry thought, somewhere along the way, Snape had _definitely_ confided what he thought about Harry to Kneader.

“Remedial Potions,” Harry said automatically even though he hated how stupid that made him sound. But word about the Occlumency lessons probably shouldn’t go beyond Harry’s immediate circle of friends, so it appeared that he was doomed to always be known as a Potions failure.

“Hmm,” was Kneader’s response. He looked as if he didn’t believe Harry. Come to think of it, if he knew Snape well, he probably would know that Snape wouldn’t give him extra Potions lessons if his life depended on it. Or unless he was forced to.

Now that he’d had time to process that Kneader didn’t like him, it helped to know that it was because the man had preconceived ideas. It meant that there was nothing that Harry could have done to prevent it and probably nothing he could do to change his mind. So maybe he shouldn’t worry about impressing the man. He threw caution to the wind and asked, “How well do you know Professor Snape?”

Kneader studied him with a pleasantly neutral expression before saying, “Well enough to call him Severus.”

Harry waited for more, but that was apparently all that the man intended to share. Harry considered trying to wheedle more information out of him but mentally shrugged. It was probably no use trying if the man didn’t _want_ to share anything. Harry would just pester Snape about it later.

He looked at the clock. A few more minutes had gone by, and still no Snape.

“You lead a Defense club, eh?” Kneader asked. It took Harry a moment to realize the man was talking to him again, as most of his questions that day had been directed at Hermione.

“Um. Yes?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. I did, last year. I don’t know that we’ll continue it, if we have a decent Defense professor this year.”

“Something wrong with your last one?” Kneader asked. Harry couldn’t help feeling as if the man were daring him to disrespect a professor, like that would prove that Harry Potter _was_ a spoiled brat or something. He stretched his fingers and deliberately tried to lower his hackles, knowing he was feeling stressed and tense and was more than likely reading too much into the man’s innocent question.

But…well, some professors deserved to be disrespected, didn’t they? The thought of Umbridge made Harry not care about proving Kneader right, and he raised his chin and answered, “Yes. She wanted to keep us ignorant, thought there wasn’t any reason for kids to learn to defend themselves. But we’re at war, aren’t we? If we don’t learn now, when _will_ we learn?”

“Maybe that’s for professors, not children, to decide,” Kneader pointed out. “That’s what they’re there for, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes professors are wrong,” Harry answered firmly, feeling his wariness of Kneader being replaced by stubbornness. He saw Hermione give him a warning glance out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t care. Kneader was as much as calling him a reckless, rebellious kid when all he’d wanted to do was teach his classmates what they should have been learning in class in the first place. Things that would keep them _alive_. “She got Dumbledore ousted from Hogwarts because she didn’t like that he insisted Voldemort was back. She made it hard for other professors to do their jobs. She decided propaganda was more important than preparing her students for their OWLs. She used a blood quill on her students in detention. Do you think she was right in doing all that just because she’s a professor?”

Kneader scratched his whiskers and studied Harry with those sharp, steady eyes. “No… No, I reckon those aren’t very professor-ish things to do.”

“Right…well, they aren’t.” Harry had kind of hoped the man would argue. He had a few more good points stored up about bad professors, including a Death Eater in disguise and the attempted use of memory charms on students and (sorry, Remus, he said silently) a werewolf run wild. As it was, he had to satisfy himself with Kneader agreeing with him far more easily than Snape ever would have done. With that point, anyway.

“So you took it upon yourself to rectify the situation, did you?” Kneader’s question put him on the defensive again, but this time Hermione chimed in.

“It really was quite complicated, Mr. Kneader. The ministry controlled the school, you see. Even the other professors couldn’t do much about it. We all did the best we could, Harry included. You can ask Professor Snape, if you like. He didn’t care for Professor Umbridge either, I’m certain of it.”

Harry huffed in amusement at the thought that Hermione’s solution wouldn’t prove much, seeing as how Snape hated a great number of people. “Er, sorry,” he said when both faces turned toward him. “It was nothing. Just a random thought. Um…you know what? I’m going to take a walk,” he announced, actually done with this conversation. He was so on edge, he was in real danger of being irreparably rude to their host. And as much as he wasn’t sure whether he liked the man, he was aware enough of his own mood to know that the man hadn’t said or done anything to truly deserve it.

Kneader didn’t try to stop him, just dipped his head and said, “Stay on this side of the oak on the knoll.”

Harry waited until his back was to the room to roll his eyes. Of course he wasn’t going to go beyond the Apparition boundary, he thought moodily. He wasn’t an idiot. Not that anyone who was friends with Snape would think any differently, he frowned to himself.

He knew he shouldn’t be so bothered by the man’s benign questions. Kneader hadn’t been anything but polite, even when he’d been asking those leading questions. In fact, Harry was probably the only one who had even noticed the man’s semi-frosty attitude toward him. It was so subtle - a lack of smile here or an extra scrutinizing gaze there, an occasional question or comment that Harry couldn’t help but read into - but when all viewed together, betrayed what the man thought of Harry’s character and intellect.

He frowned. He certainly didn’t need to be liked by every stranger he met. He’d resigned himself to not being liked by plenty of people over the years. And it’s not like they would even be here for very long. Even if they weren’t moved to another location, fall term started in less than a week and a half.

He charged out of the front door, pausing long enough to close the door softly behind him. He didn’t need their host to have any evidence that he really was some spoiled brat, after all. He plodded through the grass until he was just shy of the oak tree and plopped himself down on the ground facing the house. Seeing the rundown hovel was amusing now that he knew what was inside. Well, it was amusing until he remembered everything else that was on his mind.

Did Voldemort attack? Was Snape safe? Were the Order and the rest of the Weasleys safe? Even if they were, what would Voldemort do next to find him? This was going to be a very stressful year if he had to watch his back for any Slytherin students who might want to impress their Death Eater parents by getting to Harry or his friends.

And thinking of next year…was there even the slightest chance that Snape might allow him to use the laboratory outside of class? If he didn’t, was it worth it to still try for the NEWT? What if he studied everything he possibly could for two years and then failed anyway because it wasn’t enough? It sounded like an utterly exhausting waste of time and effort.

And then there was Snape’s apparent friendship with Lily. Now that he’d had time to think about it, he was a little weirded out. He’d kind of imagined before that child Snape was simply a younger version of his adult self - an oily, snarky Death Eater in training with serious personality issues. But then why was his mum _laughing_ with him? And if Harry was right about the letter being written to Snape, then they’d been close enough to see each other fairly regularly during their school holidays. Close enough even for him to have been invited to vacation with her family! Harry barely even got to see his own friends during the summer, at least when he was holed up at the Dursleys. Only his best friend ever invited him to spend holidays with him. Were Snape and Lily best friends?

The thought was so _weird_.

What in the world did Snape and Lily have to talk about? How had two such different people become friends?

Or had they really been that different? Harry had been told that Lily was intelligent. Snape certainly was. They apparently shared a love of school in general and Hogwarts in particular. Maybe they had more in common? Lily was a Muggle-born. Harry had assumed that Snape was a pure-blood, but he didn’t have any real knowledge to back that up. But if they lived near each other, presumably in a Muggle area, might Snape have been raised by Muggle parents as well?

Wait, no. Snape had told him that his mother was a witch. There went that idea. Though…he could have been a half-blood. It didn’t fit with his image of Snape, but it was a possibility to consider. Finding out you were a witch or wizard or that you were different than one or both of your parents was definitely something to bond over.

And that’s where his ideas stopped. He couldn’t think of a single other thing that Snape and Lily might have in common. Admittedly, that was in large part due to the fact that he knew next to nothing about his mum. How could he understand her friendships if he didn’t even know _her_? Maybe unlike everything Harry had been told, she had been drawn to the Dark Arts. Or had some dark sardonic view of the world that matched Snape’s.

Or maybe Snape hadn’t always been so jaded himself.

How was he even to know if anything he’d imagined about his mother was true if she had been friends with the last person in the world Harry would have imagined?

He lay back in the grass, careful to avoid the rocks, and sighed.

Back to Kneader…

Oh, why fool himself? He knew that he was only bothered about Kneader because of his link to Snape. He was hardly surprised that Snape had unloaded his hatred of Harry Potter onto someone he trusted, but it wasn’t supposed to sting. It wouldn’t have, mere weeks ago. Snape had obviously hated Harry, had thought all those horrible things about him. Even if he had changed his mind about some things, Harry knew that his past hatred was a force to be reckoned with. Knowing that everything Kneader knew about him was from Snape’s past hatred though, somehow made it now seem…not past.

His feelings were all jumbled up. Lily and Snape, Snape and Kneader, Voldemort and Grimmauld Place, Hogwarts and Potions, all mixing up in his brain like a noisy stew. So many things were bothering him, he hardly knew where one worry stopped and the next one started.

He closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, trying to focus his senses on the world around him like Snape had taught him. He could smell the sweetness of the grass, the earthy tang of the dirt, the salt of the sea. His fingers burrowed themselves into the dirt and grass. His elbow rested on a smooth rock. He listened to the breeze, the chatter of birds, the whisper of insects going about their daily routines, the slithering of something approaching-

His eyes shot open and he turned his head to the side in time to see a snake poised to strike. He froze for a second, then said quickly, “I mean you no harm!” He hoped to Merlin that had been in Parseltongue. He still couldn’t tell most of the time whether he was speaking in English or in the snake language.

Thankfully, it worked, as the snake drew its head back and up, relaxing into a watchful pose. It didn’t say anything though, and Harry wasn’t about to move until he figured out if the snake was going to bite him.

“Can you understand me?”

“Yesssss,” answered the snake. “I have never been ssspoken to by a human. Are you a ssssnake-human?”

Harry grinned at the funny question. “Are you going to bite me? If you don’t mean me harm, I’ll sit up and we can talk.” He didn’t add that if the snake did mean him harm, he was going to do his best to kick it away and make a run for it.

“I will not harm you, ssssnake-human.”

Harry sat up slowly just in case the snake was startled easily, but it calmly watched him, its head swaying gently from side to side.

“I am not a snake-human,” he said. “I am a wizard. Some wizards - not very many - know the snake language.”

The snake bobbed its head up and down once as if to nod, and Harry was mesmerized by the smooth scales running in a white and black pattern along its body. He’d never thought of snakes as beautiful, but that’s the only word he could use to describe this one.

“I have not sssseen you here before,” said the snake. It lowered its head and slowly coiled itself up, apparently getting comfortable.

“I have never been here before.” Harry followed suit, crossing his legs and leaning back on his hands. “Do you live near here?”

“Yesssss.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The snake bobbed in answer, and Harry smiled. This was just what he needed: a mindless, pleasant conversation with someone wholly unconnected with the war or Voldemort or the Order or the wizarding world in general. And so he lost himself in chatter with his new friend, conversing about everything from tasty field mice to why so few wizards could speak Parseltongue.

He was so immersed in the conversation that he didn’t realize that more than an hour had gone by or that they weren’t alone until a long shadow blocked out the sun and the snake drew back, hissing something unintelligible.

Harry looked up, and it took a moment through his squinted eyes to register Snape’s tall form and wary black eyes. He was so surprised at his sudden appearance that all his worries and anticipation gave way to a simple sense of shock. “You’re back!” he said dumbly, then cringed, waiting for some comment about stating the obvious.

But Snape didn’t answer, his attention on the snake.

“Ssshould I bite him?” the snake asked, beginning to uncoil.

“No!” Harry said quickly, turning back to the snake. “He won’t hurt you. Or me. He’s a friend.”

“Friend…” the snake repeated slowly, and Harry wondered if he had said it right. Snakes understood the concept of friends, right? “Is this your sssnake-human father?” Maybe not.

Harry reddened. He was never so glad as right now that Parseltongue was rare. Snape would probably have a conniption if he knew that anybody - even a reptile - had mistaken him for Harry’s father. “No. I don’t have a father. He is my teacher. And a wizard. He doesn’t know snake language,” he felt the need to clarify.

The snake appeared to understand ‘teacher’ better than ‘friend.’ He relaxed a bit, though he was on alert more than he had been when Harry had been the only wizard present.

Snape cleared his throat and finally spoke. “What were you talking to it about?”

“Just…um, random stuff,” Harry answered. “He wanted to know if you were a friend.” He shot a look at Snape. “Don’t hurt him, okay? He’s not going to do anything.”

“Of course not,” Snape murmured. He looked a bit dazed, maybe even awed, and Harry looked back at the snake in some discomfort. Talking to snakes came so naturally to him that until he did it in front of someone, it never occurred to him how odd it must appear to others. Or how it could seem dark. Parseltongue was associated with the Dark Arts, after all. It didn’t seem that way to Harry, but most other wizards looked on it with trepidation. It didn’t help that they couldn’t hear what Harry and the snake were saying.

“He was telling me about his home,” Harry volunteered. Maybe if he explained, it would sound less like a dark power. “How sometimes it storms, but right after it storms is his favorite time to hunt. A lot of the smells are washed away, but the mice and frogs taste better.”

Snape stared at him, and Harry wondered if maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. But he wasn’t always very good at doing that.

“He stays away from the house. Kneader gives him the creeps.” Harry grinned. He’d felt a bit vindicated when he’d heard that. “The man _does_ have eyes like a hawk. I bet that’s why you’re friends with him, huh? Because he notices everything?” Harry couldn’t resist digging for information.

“I never said the man was my friend,” Snape corrected. “Only that I trust him.”

“Hmm.” Harry guessed he could believe that. Snape didn’t exactly scream best friend material.

…Unless he been best friends with Lily? Not that he had proof that they were more than school acquaintances, but…they _might_ have been best friends.

Harry carefully averted his eyes. He’d figure out how to broach that subject later. Now wasn’t the right time. Now wasn’t really the time to talk about Kneader either.

“How…how’s Grimmauld Place?” he asked.

Snape waved a hand at the snake. “I don’t suppose you could send away your little friend. I have little interest in conversing so near a pair of venomous fangs.”

“Is he venomous?” Harry asked, curiously turning to study his new friend.

“Yes. It - he - is.”

“Oh. I wasn’t sure,” Harry cocked his head at the snake. “I don’t really know if it’s a _he_ either, by the way. I just got tired of thinking of him as an _it_. And he’s all right. He won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“As much as I trust your word…” Snape gestured again at the snake, his expression telling Harry that he wasn’t asking this time.

“Don’t Slytherins like snakes?” Harry asked with a grin.

Snape gave Harry a longsuffering look. “We admire their qualities of stealth and cunning. We would hardly be displaying cunning ourselves if we enjoyed lounging around within striking distance of one.”

“Only because you can’t talk to them.”

“You do realize how unsettling it is to hear you converse so casually in Parseltongue, don’t you?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. No, he didn’t understand, not really, but he did know objectively from others’ reactions whenever it happened. “It doesn’t feel weird to me,” he finally said quietly. He reached out a hand toward his snake friend, pausing when Snape drew in a sharp breath.

“He won’t hurt me,” Harry promised, looking up at the professor before turning his attention back to the snake, who had come closer when Harry reached out. It flicked Harry’s fingers with its tongue and nudged his palm with its head. Harry smiled as he ran his fingers over the smooth scales.

“My teacher needs to talk to me,” he said to the snake. “You can go hunting now.”

“Will you be back, ssssnake-human?”

Harry smirked. So much for trying to explain that he wasn’t part snake. “I will if I can. I don’t know how long I will be staying here.”

“Farewell then.” The snake bobbed its head and Harry withdrew his hand.

“Farewell,” Harry said, the word sliding easily off his tongue. He watched as the snake uncoiled itself and slowly slithered away into the grass.

Snape waited until it was a good distance away before lowering himself to sit on a rock near Harry. “I’ve heard the Dark Lord speak in Parseltongue many times,” he volunteered. “It sounds different from your lips.”

“Really?” Harry looked up at him in genuine curiosity. “How so?”

“Same sounds. Something different in the tone.” He tilted his head, watching Harry with those steady black eyes. “Snakes are tools to him, as are all of his allies. He wouldn’t think to have a casual conversation with a snake, much less chat it up about its life and preferences.” Snape shot him a look as if to say that most other wizards wouldn’t be crazy enough to do that either, which made Harry feel somewhat defensive.

“Yeah, well… Just because it’s a snake doesn’t mean it doesn’t get lonely. We all need somebody to talk to sometimes.”

Snape shook his head, still looking at him like he was crazy.

“Look, I didn’t ask for this power, okay? But since I have it, what’s so wrong with making a new friend?”

“Nothing,” murmured Snape in reply. “Nothing whatsoever. You merely…continue to surprise me.”

Harry fidgeted with a blade of grass under Snape’s prolonged stare. From the way Snape seemed contemplative rather than upset, he guessed that surprising him in this instance wasn’t a bad thing. Still, he didn’t like to be studied like a bug under a microscope. “Headquarters?” he prompted. “How is it? Is everyone all right?”

“Headquarters is fine. The Dark Lord never attacked.”

“What?” Harry swallowed past a tightness in his throat. “But…why not? He knew where we were. He couldn’t have made that up. He knew we were at Grimmauld Place, I _know_ he did!”

“All that we know, at most, is that he managed to find your approximate location within London,” said Snape. “How, we do not know. But there are ways.”

“Ways to get around a Secret-Keeper?” Harry asked, startled. He’d thought the Fidelius Charm was foolproof. If it wasn’t, then why-?

“No,” Snape cut off that line of thinking. “There is no way to find out the exact location of headquarters or to gain access to it unless the headmaster reveals it. Which he most certainly has not. However, there are ways of narrowing down the general vicinity of people protected by the Fidelius Charm. The simple way would involve carelessness on the part of the Order, allowing the Dark Lord or his followers to notice a pattern around the comings and goings of headquarters. The complex way would involve difficult and advanced magic, the kind few are capable of producing. But the Dark Lord does have one or two followers who _might_ be capable of such a thing, if given the right set of circumstances. We do not believe they have such necessary circumstances in place, but it is nonetheless a possibility that we are exploring.”

Harry mulled that over. “Then…why would he plan an attack if he didn’t have an exact location? Wait. _Did_ he attack somewhere? Anywhere, at all?”

“No,” answered Snape, watching him shrewdly. Harry couldn’t help but think that Snape wanted him to work some puzzle out for himself…

Oh. _Oh._

He bit his lip, then said carefully, “You think he sent me the vision on purpose, don’t you? To fool me somehow.”

“It is a distinct possibility,” Snape confirmed.

“But why?” he cried, frustrated. “It doesn’t make sense why he would do that. It’s not as if the vision gained him anything. I wasn’t going to go charging out into the street where he could Apparate away with me. It didn’t get him anything. It couldn’t have been a ruse, because there was no _point_.”

Snape held up his fingers and started listing the possibilities. “He could have wanted you to relocate to a place more traceable. He may have thought we would show our hand if we were convinced he already knew where we were. He may have counted on your early return to Hogwarts, where he would know your exact location and not all school year defenses would be in place yet. At the very least, it could have thrown the Order into a panic and caused us to slip up in some way. He hadn’t had any concrete leads since you left your relatives’ home. Shaking things up could cause us to make a mistake. And he knows that he is much more likely to capture you now than after the term starts, when you will be under Dumbledore’s constant protection and the watchful eye of a dozen professors. He is running out of time, and he knows it.”

“Okay. I get it,” Harry said meekly. “There are reasons.” But the idea that Voldemort might still send him false visions after the fiasco of last year scared Harry. He had meant to question Snape about why he should even bother to break away from Voldemort’s mind, maybe even whether he should welcome it. Maybe if he’d stayed longer, they would have gleaned more information to help them face the attack…

Now he had his answer. Even if it turned out that Voldemort hadn’t sent the vision on purpose, Harry still would always wonder, would always second guess his glimpses into Voldemort’s mind and eye them with fear and suspicion. One wrong step, and they could do far more harm than good.

Harry sighed. “I know I’m learning Occlumency for a reason…but I guess I still thought we could use what I see to our advantage.”

“It is in your best interest to never ignore them,” said Snape. “But they should always be approached with suspicion. He has shown himself quite capable of feeding you lies with the intent to compromise you.”

“I have no choice then,” Harry said, subdued. “I have to block him. I mean, I knew I should, that’s what I’ve been working on, but… I dunno, I thought…” He took a deep breath. “What I mean is, how do I make the leap from clearing and focusing my mind to actively blocking him all the time?”

Snape studied him for a moment. “You should know that the ultimate goal is not about blocking him,” he said slowly. “It is about learning to control your mind so that he cannot manipulate or harm you through your connection. Until you have enough control or discernment to differentiate between useful information and deceit, then yes, it _is_ in your best interest to block him. _For now_. And we will work on that. But do not mistake that as the end goal.”

Harry widened his eyes. “You _want_ me to use the connection eventually?”

“What I want - and what the headmaster wants - is for you to have the skills needed for such an undertaking if and only if it should be absolutely necessary,” Snape clarified. “Your immediate objective in learning Occlumency should not be to wield a weapon, but rather to prevent a weapon from being wielded against you…or, worse, from you yourself being used as a weapon.”

They were both silent for a minute as Harry let that sink in.

“If you continue on this path,” Snape said softly, “of focusing on the study of Occlumency, then eventually your skills may allow you to utilize this connection with the Dark Lord to your advantage. Until then, you are not to trust it. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“We will discuss Occlumency more tomorrow,” said Snape, indicating an end to their conversation. “We should head to the house. The others will want an update.”

“You haven’t been inside yet?”

“I only just arrived. I was headed that direction, but I saw you here, talking to your…little friend,” Snape said, his face still showing his doubt about the wisdom of having a friend with venomous fangs.

Harry smiled. He knew it made sense for a non-Parselmouth to be wary of snakes, but he still found it funny that the Head of Slytherin was. “You know, I was thinking about inviting him over for dinner tomorrow. Meet my other friends. Show a bit of hospitality. Don’t you think that would be nice?”

Snape gave him a unimpressed look as he stood, which only made Harry want to smile more. Instead, he added in a fake-serious voice, as if he were seriously considering it, “It’s not a bad idea, you know. If any Death Eaters find us here, he’d be a great security system.”

“You are not going to knowingly invite a deadly creature to take up residence on Mr. Kneader’s front porch,” Snape drawled. It was obvious by the way he seemed unconcerned that he knew he was being teased, and Harry grinned.

“Well,” he said as he stood and brushed bits of grass from his clothing, “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, if you change your mind.”

Snape raised his eyebrows in a way that Harry took to mean _not in this lifetime_ and led the way toward the house.

Harry fell in line with him. Dropping the topic of the snake, he thought of something else he wanted to know. “Are we going back to headquarters, now that you think it’s safe?”

Snape shook his head. “We will not chance it quite yet. Kneader’s Point is well warded, and you will have the protection of multiple Order members so long as we are here.”

“And Mr. Weasley? Fred and George? Will they be coming here too?”

“Soon. Not yet. There are other matters that need to be seen to. For now, the only Order presence will be me, Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, and Mr. Kneader.”

“Not Moody?”

“He will no doubt leave now that I am here to see to certain things.”

“What things?”

“Order things.”

“Like what?”

Snape gave him his _stop talking_ look.

Harry pretended to interpret it as a request to change the topic. “Kneader said he gave Remus a sleeping draught last night, but I think he might have given him more than one. He’s been sleeping ever since we got here. Don’t you think that’s maybe overkill? He didn’t look _that_ injured.”

“I asked him to keep Lupin sedated,” Snape said casually. “And it would not be remiss of you to call him ‘Mr. Kneader,’ seeing as he is your elder and an esteemed member of the Order.”

Harry stopped walking, caught on the first bit. “You asked Kneader to drug Remus?” he asked, scandalized. At a stern look from Snape, he hastily amended, “Mr. Kneader,” but crossed his arms to emphasize how appalled he was.

“As we could not ascertain all that was done to Lupin during his captivity,” Snape explained, turning in place, “I thought it best to keep him sedated for the time being.”

Harry shook his head, offended on behalf of his dad’s friend. “It’s not his fault he was captured! Why not just perform some diagnostic spells, make sure he’s all right, and lay off him? What good does _sedating_ him do?”

“Not all curses are easy to detect,” answered Snape in his professor voice.

“So you think he’s _cursed_ now?”

“I certainly hope not,” Snape answered calmly. “But the fact remains that the Dark Lord not only _allowed_ him to be recovered, he sent you directly to him. He then sent you a vision, most likely on purpose, that headquarters was compromised. The first thing your Lupin did when he returned was to argue that you be sent to one of our weakest safe houses. I would not be doing my job if I did not ascertain for certain that he presents no threat.”

“Just because he trusts his friend - a friend who is an _Order member_ , by the way - doesn’t mean he’s trying to put anyone in danger!” he insisted stubbornly. “Remus would never try to hurt me.”

“Says the boy he nearly mauled to death little over two years ago.”

“He wasn’t in his right mind, and you know it.”

“And your dear Lupin will remain sedated until we can ascertain that he is in his right mind _now_ ,” Snape clipped.

“You’re such a Slytherin!” he accused. “You can’t just relax and stop seeing plots and plans everywhere, even where there are none!” At Snape’s stern look, he tacked on, “sir.”

Snape shook his head, probably at his pitiful show of respect. “I see plots and plans because it is my job to do so. You would do well to take note and never take things at face value.”

“I’m not going to live my life trusting nothing and no one,” Harry insisted.

“Then it is an exceedingly good thing I am here to distrust them for you,” Snape snapped right back. His eyes flashed, Harry cue that they were on the precipice of a real fight. And really, Harry didn’t want to fight.

So he took a deep breath, mentally backed down, and said evenly, “Just tell me you don’t think he’s an impostor or anything.”

“No,” Snape answered. He took a breath as well, eyes returning to normal. “He most certainly _is_ Remus Lupin. We made certain of that before he was brought to the first safe house. Even had we been mistaken, he never could have flooed to Grimmauld Place if he were an impostor. Only a person told the location of headquarters directly from Professor Dumbledore can step foot there.”

Harry let out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. So then why-”

“As I said,” Snape said slowly, “not all curses can be detected. The most dangerous and least detectable curses require the caster to maintain a hold over the cursed individual from a distance. Mr. Kneader has extensive, intricate wards around this property, some of which make it impossible for such curses to be maintained for very long on an individual residing within its bounds. Lupin may very well be perfectly fine, but as I will not be taking chances with the safety of anyone here, he will remain incapacitated for at least another day.” Snape tone brooked no argument, and Harry didn’t know how to argue his way around that anyway.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Like a quarantine or whatever. I got it. Only one more day?”

“Maybe two,” Snape said as he whipped around and continued leisurely toward the house.

Harry shot a glare at the man’s back as he took a few quick steps to catch up. He grumbled about that for only a second before he decided they’d beat that conversation to death and there was one more thing he needed to say before they were surrounded by people. “You’ve talked to Mr. Kneader about me before, haven’t you?” He probably shouldn’t ask that, but it seemed quite tame in comparison to the questions about his mum and Potions that he _really_ wanted to ask.

Snape shot him a sideways glance. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Harry groused. “Just the Snape-colored glasses I can see him wearing whenever he looks at me.”

Snape smirked but didn’t answer. He didn’t even offer any excuses or apologies for maybe having vented to Kneader about him. But then, Harry hadn’t expected him to.

“How _do_ you know him, anyway?”

“We are both members of the Order.”

“Is that how you met him?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“I do not believe I gave you license to interrogate me, Mr. Potter.”

“Well, if you’d give longer answers, it would be more of a conversation than an interrogation, wouldn’t it? I mean, honestly, even the _snake_ was more forthcoming than you are!” Harry threw up his hands.

“I’d imagine the _snake_ has not been entrusted with sensitive Order information.”

“Is how you met Mr. Kneader an Order secret?” he prodded.

“No. It is simply none of your business.”

_Is your friendship with my mum my business?_ he desperately wanted to ask but knew better than to do so right then. Snape was so private, so guarded. How was he _ever_ going to get the man’s walls down enough to ask about something so personal? He held in a sigh, knowing that it wouldn’t be in his best interest for the Legilimens to know he had something weighing on his mind that he wasn’t sharing out loud.

“So what are we going to do about You-Know-Who?” he asked instead.

Snape shot him a look as they climbed the porch. “Have you always been this loquacious?”

“I don’t know,” Harry frowned. “Is loquacious a good thing?”

Snape stopped in front of the door and looked down his nose at Harry. “Talkative. Garrulous. Inclined to inane chatter.”

“It’s not inane to want to know what’s to be done about You-Know-Who.” Harry tried to look down his nose at Snape but gave up. The man was too tall for it to work.

“The Order will decide our next move.”

“Well, I think-”

“I know very well what you think, Mr. Potter,” Snape shook his head and reached for the door. “Which is why the _Order_ , not you, will decide.”

“But-”

“On second thought, sit,” Snape abruptly removed his hand from the door and pointed to one of the comfortable-looking chairs on the porch. “I believe that we are overdue for a chat.”

Harry bit his lip, eyeing the chair. “I thought you were tired of, er…inane chatter.” Talking didn’t sound as appealing when Snape looked ready to deliver a lecture.

“I have allowed you to linger under a misapprehension for long enough, I think.” Snape again gestured toward the chair, and seeing no alternative, Harry reluctantly sat. Snape followed suit in the chair next to his, saying before he’d fully settled in, “Tell me again what your dream self told you.”

“Um, which one?” Harry shifted, trying to get comfortable.

“The last one. The one that has you all in a tizzy to sacrifice yourself to the Dark Lord.”

“Tizzy?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t get in ‘tizzies,’ professor.”

“Tell me again what the vision told you,” Snape repeated. “ _Exactly_ what it told you.”

Harry leaned back into the chair, figuring he might as well get comfortable. He savored the fresh sea breeze on his face as he thought back to his dream. “He said I had to stay ahead of You-Know-Who, that-”

“Those were not the words you repeated to Professor Dumbledore and me. I don’t want your interpretation of his words. Tell me his _exact words_.”

Harry tapped his fingers on his leg, thinking. “Well… He said that I had to be captured by Vol- You-Know-Who. That his plan to get my blood was flawed somehow, but he didn't say how, and he said I had to be captured if we were going to win the war.”

“What else?”

“He said I need to do it my way-”

“Is that precisely what he said?”

“No,” Harry huffed. “ _On my own terms_. Those are the words he said. He said I needed it to happen on my own terms. That if I let it play out on You-Know-Who’s terms, I wouldn't be able to escape.”

"Your own terms being what?"

"Well, I think-"

"Not what you think,” Snape interrupted. “What he said."

"He said I need to trust you because you're the only one who can get me out of there.”

“And did he say anything about me getting you _in_ there in the first place?”

“Well, no, but-”

“And did he say specifically that ‘your own terms’ means that you are to surrender?”

“No. But-”

“ _Think_ , Potter,” Snape snapped. “You have a theory, and it isn’t a completely terrible theory from a logical standpoint, but it is not the only valid theory that can be deduced from the information available to you. There are multiple ways in which your vision can be interpreted. Rather than focusing in on your first and only interpretation, learn to consider all possibilities. Read between the lines. See it from different angles. What other meanings could you assign to what your vision told you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I want for _you_ to get at it,” Snape said testily. “Analyze what you just told me. Begin by considering another meaning your vision’s words could have other than your willing surrender or my turning you over to a murderous Dark Lord. One reason. Any reason.”

Harry was silent as he considered Snape’s words, really considered them. Maybe he _had_ focused in on his surrender idea to the extent that he’d thought that was what his vision self was telling him to do. He hadn’t actually said to give himself up…but if those weren’t his own terms, then how was Snape supposed to get him out of there? Snape had to _be_ there if he was going to get him _out_ of there.

“Have a way to call for help?” Harry lifted his hand with the ring on it, and Snape glanced at it before gesturing for him to keep talking. “Or maybe…” he thought aloud, reaching for any idea at all, “my own terms means that I’ve got to be ready? Like Occlumency, defensive skills, that sort of thing? I guess he could have meant that I needed to be ready for the day when it happens, not that I need to rush it along..?”

“Good,” Snape nodded, and Harry was caught off guard by the man directing an honest to goodness word of praise his way that he momentarily lost his train of thought.

He regained it quickly. “So you think that’s it?”

“I didn’t say that. You’ve learned to see one or two possible alternate interpretations. Can you think of any others?”

“Um…he said trusting you was the main thing. So maybe my own terms just have to do with me remembering that and not doing anything stupid?”

“A feat in and of itself,” Snape muttered, and Harry had the childish urge to stick out his tongue at the man. He refrained.

“He said it would happen soon,” he felt the need to add. “If it’s not about us deciding when it happens, how soon do you think is soon?”

“You are young,” said Snape. “You see things in days and weeks. ‘Soon’ could as easily mean next month or next year. Or the vision could be wrong and it will never happen. _And_ ,” he emphasized as he saw Harry about to argue, “I know that you believe the vision. I am not discounting the possibility of its truth. My primary concern is that you do not go on some misguided suicide mission based on a misconstrued interpretation of its warnings that has no basis in factual reality.”

“So we do nothing,” Harry said dejectedly. At Snape’s sideways glare, he added, “Okay, not nothing. Practice Occlumency. Do my homework. Stay safe.” He felt like he was parroting a mantra that had been shoved down his throat. Not that he necessarily wanted to take action…but this not knowing what the future had in store made worrying about the mundane things extra difficult.

_Or_ , he thought, he could take advantage of the next week to focus on the not-so-mundane details that were on his mind lately. But was Snape himself prepared to deal with a Harry who shifted his focus from Voldemort to his teacher’s friendships, childhood or otherwise? If the professor knew all that was on Harry’s mind, Harry thought he might actually prefer for him to focus back on Voldemort.

“We are agreed then,” Snape said, rising to his feet. He didn’t wait for Harry to argue or ask any more questions before he was opening the door and gesturing for Harry to precede him into the house. That effectively ended the conversation, for as soon as they were inside, Snape’s attention was on greeting Kneader, and Harry’s attention was on studying the two to determine how well they knew each other. He couldn’t tell much from their reserved greetings or their brief handshake, but he thought he detected the slightest relaxing of Snape’s shoulders when he looked out of the large ocean view windows, as if to betray that the professor felt comfortable here. It certainly wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.

He continued watching the men interact through the evening until he realized over dinner that he was watching Kneader watch him watch them, and he refocused his attention on his bowl of stew.

His attention was still on his professor though, even if he tried harder not to be obvious about it. He didn’t notice anything that would help him unravel the mysteries surrounding his mum’s childhood friend, but he did take note that the professor didn’t sneer at him even once for the rest of the day, even though he did spare some sneers for a departing Moody and the sleeping Remus. He even asked Harry if he needed any potions before he went to bed.

And as Harry lay in bed that night preparing to clear his mind, he came to the realization that Kneader wasn’t the one whose good opinion he cared about earning, not even a little bit, not even at all.


	35. The Great Biscuit Plan

His mental wall was fortified, stronger than it ever had been before, but he didn’t take the time to congratulate himself. Any distraction could prove his undoing. Any moment now, the walls could be breached, torn apart to reveal his deepest, most guarded secrets-

And there it was. Harry felt Snape’s mind attack his wall, poking at it for weaknesses and unable to find any. Harry didn’t bother wondering whether his professor was taking it easy on him or not. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Harry keep the wall firm, not allowing the man any leeway.

It turned out that his need to keep his discoveries about Snape and his mum to himself was a powerful motivator for putting every last bit of effort into their Occlumency lessons. Not that he allowed himself to think that specific thought while Snape was in his mind, of course, but he didn’t have to think it consciously to know that it was true. He didn’t want Snape to know what was on his mind, not yet, not until he could figure out a way to bring up the topic in a non-threatening way, and the only way to keep the man from finding such things out while he was _in his head_ was to become a quick study at this fortified mental wall thing.

As it turned out, he wasn’t half bad at it when properly motivated. Maybe he _did_ have some sort of natural aptitude for the mental arts.

Even Snape was impressed, though Harry had to read between the lines to know it. The professor had been with them at Kneader’s Point for two nights now, and they had resumed lessons yesterday. For the first time, Harry had been able to block Snape throughout a full lesson of attacks. The professor had obviously been surprised but hadn’t said much, and Harry knew he’d thought it might be a fluke. But with Harry continuing to block him today, Snape’s mood was steadily improving. (And by improved mood, he meant that Snape was barely even frowning.)

After a few more tries, Snape withdrew his mind and broke their connection. Harry opened his eyes to find the professor’s black eyes studying him. “Either our last several lessons impressed upon you the need to discipline your mind, Mr. Potter, or the sea air is most effective in calming the senses. Perhaps both?”

Harry breathed in deeply of the fresh air and scooted back on the large beach towel, letting his fingers fall off the edge into the sand. Who knew that Snape would so easily agree to moving their Occlumency lesson to the beach? Harry hadn’t even had to try very hard to talk him into it. It was perhaps his favorite lesson yet.

“Was that your way of saying ‘good job’?” Harry asked with a small grin. He knew he’d done well in holding off the man’s attacks, and it was a good feeling. He only hoped the man wouldn’t find out _why_ he’d been so motivated to succeed. Not yet, anyway.

“ _That_ was my way of saying that your performance was not quite so abysmal as your earlier efforts, but interpret it as you will,” Snape sniffed. That meant _good job_. Harry could tell, though he held off another grin. Wouldn’t want Snape to get so uncomfortable with the giving out of compliments that he stopped giving them, after all.

Snape stood and stretched his neck. “That’s enough for today, I think. You have progressed sufficiently with this concept. We will add in a new element tomorrow.”

“New element?” Harry questioned as he gathered up the towel and gently shook out the sand.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” Snape waved off his question. “As for today, I have lesson plans to finalize. As classes begin soon, perhaps you should review your books and summer assignments?” The man gave him a scrutinizing look, as if daring Harry to tell him that he’d finished every last assignment. Harry wondered whether if he made that claim, Snape would demand to see his essays and mark them for errors. He wouldn’t put it past him.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, even though he _was_ further ahead on his studies than he’d been at this point during any previous summer. He was nearly done, as a matter of fact. Long weeks confined to an old house with a stern taskmaster would do that. He only had to finish his Herbology essay and then start in on Potions. _If_ Potions was a possibility…

And that was how he found himself sitting across from Snape in the kitchen that afternoon, pretending to pore over his Herbology textbook but actually studying the man out of the corner of his eye and thinking of ways to crack some secrets and kindness out of that thick skull.

_So...you and my mum, huh?_

No. That was no good at all. Snape didn't respond well to blunt questions. He needed a bit of subtlety.

_Did you have any best friends growing up? Redheaded, green eyed friends, maybe? Why am I asking? Oh, no reason. No reason at all._

He didn’t think he could manage a shrug that would be subtle enough to make up for the decidedly _un_ subtle questions.

_Oh, Professor Snape, I was just thinking about how you went to school with my parents. Nearly forgot that! Anyhow…any chance my mum was good at Potions? Really? Hey, so want to do your old school chum a favor and let her kid use the Potions lab from time to time?_

Sure, he could say that…if he wanted to never be allowed near the Potions classroom ever again.

He held in a sigh and chanced another covert glance at the object of his thoughts. Snape was calmly sitting at the table, head bowed over a book, hand poised over a sheath of papers he’d been writing notes on for the last hour. After another minute of reading, his quill scratched out a few more notes on the top sheet. He hardly seemed to know Harry was there.

Hermione had joined them for a while, always willing to join in on a study session, though she _had_ seemed a bit wary of plopping herself down at a table across from Snape. When the professor didn’t acknowledge her presence and Harry gave her a welcoming smile, she spread out and adapted quickly to the unusual situation. Even so, she’d remained silent as she studied, probably unwilling to test the theory that Snape really was as fine sharing his workspace with two teenagers as he appeared to be.

Her books were still on the table but she was gone now, pulled away by a smiling Ginny to go down to the beach. They’d invited Harry, but he’d opted to stay behind, hopeful that he’d get up his courage to broach one of the several topics he wanted to ask Snape about. This was a good opportunity, with Mrs. Weasley taking a nap, Remus sleeping another day away, and Kneader out and about doing…whatever it was he did when he disappeared. Gardening, maybe. The day before, Harry had seen him watering a rather impressive garden around the side of the house. All the big, fresh vegetables in the fridge made a lot of sense now.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was extracting information from the too-intelligent-for-its-own-good head attached to a certain Potions professor’s body. It was all well and good to ask the man about his hobbies and acquaintances, knowing that it didn’t really matter if he didn’t answer. But the keys to Harry’s past and future were on the line this time. And not only that, he was kind of enjoying the new rapport he and Snape had developed. He’d never thought they could get on even half as well as they had been lately, and he didn’t want to jeopardize that.

So…yeah, a lot was riding on finding the right words to say and then saying them when Snape was in the right mood to respond.

Therefore, what was Harry to do but abandon any pretense of doing homework and whip up a batch of Aunt Petunia’s neighborhood-famous biscuits? If Harry had learned anything from living with the Dursleys, it was that the smell and taste of good food had a way of making people happy…okay, at least less tense. And happier minds were usually more receptive to talking. Or, in the Dursleys’ case, less prone to doling out the worst punishments.

It was a long shot, particularly as Snape was a million times more rational than the Dursleys, but it had the side benefit of procrastination. Snape didn’t even look up the entire time Harry rooted through the pantry for ingredients and utensils, which gave Harry all the more time to study him and consider what to say.

Maybe he could draw a parallel between Potions and cooking? Harry wasn’t a half bad cook, having had plenty of practice in Petunia’s kitchen. It wasn’t quite the same thing, but it could be a starting point from which to work his way toward Potions. And Snape would have good food in front of him, so…bonus.

It really was a lame plan, he knew even as he was going through with it, but he had no _good_ plan. He could just come out and ask, but Snape was very, very good at shutting down questions with one-word answers and then refusing to consider them further. Harry’s only hope was to start up a conversation and hope that Snape was curious enough to keep the conversation going.

Potions first, he decided. He would feel let down to get a negative answer about that, but his soul wouldn’t be crushed. He’d get over it. Also, Snape would be less likely to have a conniption when asked something about school than about his own personal past.

So, yeah. Potions first, as a test run. _Then_ Lily, if the Potions talk went well.

He had plenty of time to mull over those thoughts by the time he set out a plate of freshly baked biscuits, complete with some fresh fruit and cream he’d found in the fridge, and a pot of tea. He took care to set it and an extra plate and teacup slightly closer to Snape, obvious that he meant it as an offer to tuck in.

“You do realize the house-elf could have done that,” Snape said with the barest of glances before scribbling a few more notes on his parchment.

Harry held in a frown. The man really needed to learn how to say a simple thank you. “I didn’t mind,” he said instead. “It’s nice to have something to do.”

Snape didn’t reply, consulting the pages of one of his books before jotting down another note, and Harry was beginning to wonder if he’d need to cajole the man into taking a snack break when Snape snatched a biscuit and took a small bite.

Harry grinned and poured himself a cup of tea. Nobody tasted Petunia’s biscuits and stayed silent about them for long…

“This is…not terrible,” Snape finally said after eating the entire biscuit. He set down his quill and poured tea into his own cup. “You cook quite well for a boy your age.”

“Thanks.” Phase one of the plan: success!

“Was that one of your regular chores for your relatives?”

“Um…” He paused long enough to wonder if it was a leading question and try to figure out a way out of it. He was trying to get around to Potions, not to the Dursleys. “Yes. Sort of. Just breakfast, mainly. Petunia likes to cook, so she usually cooks dinner and I help sometimes.”

“You make it sound so domestic…as if your life there were normal.”

Harry shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s not like I lived in an actual dungeon, professor. My childhood wasn’t the best, but some parts of it were probably pretty normal. Like helping out in the kitchen.”

“Hmm. And how old were you when you started helping out in the kitchen?” Snape looked at him like he expected an outrageous answer, like Harry was going to tell him he’d been two or something, which was just ridiculous. He was fairly certain he’d been at least three. But maybe that wasn’t an acceptable answer either. He didn’t have a good concept of how old children were supposed to be before they started certain chores.

“I don’t remember exactly,” he hedged.

“How old were you when you first burned yourself on the stove?” Snape smoothly asked.

“How did you-” Harry caught himself, then narrowed his eyes. “You’re a sneaky Slytherin, you know that?”

“It is hardly an illogical deduction,” Snape answered dryly, though his eyes betrayed a certain amount of disgust with Harry’s answer. Or, more likely, with what Harry _hadn’t_ answered, which was that he had burned himself more than once. “They have shown little consideration for your safety in every other way. Why _wouldn’t_ they intentionally place a toddler in direct contact with hot surfaces and scalding liquids?”

Harry harrumphed. “I wasn’t a toddler,” he mumbled. “And it didn’t happen very often. I’ve always been pretty coordinated, even back then. I learned fast what not to touch and how much I could carry.”

“Yes, fear of blistering pain is a powerful motivator for a young child,” Snape said, dark eyes flashing, and Harry dropped his eyes to the table and took a bite out of a biscuit to keep from having to respond. The idea that Snape was offended on his behalf was still a new concept, one he didn’t know what to do with. And it was rather off the topic that he’d been hoping to work his way around to…

“I always thought Potions was a bit like cooking,” he said, equally determined to get around to what was on his mind as he was to _not_ talk any more about the Dursleys.

“Potions is nothing like cooking,” Snape scoffed, going along with the clumsy attempt to change the topic, though Harry could tell he wasn’t fooled by it. “It requires a precision lacking in most culinary endeavors. Too much salt can be rectified. Too much foxglove will kill you by inhalation alone.”

“Not every Potions ingredient is poisonous,” Harry argued. “And too much salt may not kill you, but it can’t always be rectified. You’re always going on about the different solutions to the mistakes we make. Too much flobberworm mucus? Add borage to soak it up and fix the consistency of the potion. Stuff like that.”

“Not every potion can be corrected so simply.”

“Neither can a chicken that’s been burnt to a crisp!” Harry snapped. He could vouch for that personally. He’d been in quite a bit of trouble with Petunia over that one, never mind that he’d been too young to even reach the knobs on the oven without a stool. He still sometimes equated the smell of burning meat to being locked too long in his cupboard and desperately looking for something to use as a makeshift loo. He looked down at the table and rubbed the back of his neck at that thought. There was no way he was going to chance Snape seeing that memory in his eyes, even though he was fairly certain the man wasn’t Legilimizing him without warning these days.

This was _not_ going the way he’d planned. Well, it _was_ a rather half-baked plan, he knew. He couldn’t believe he’d thought he could start a casual conversation with Snape that wouldn’t devolve into disagreement before they even got around to the point of what he wanted to ask.

“Potions _does_ tend to require more precision,” He offered into the silence, trying not to sound like the admission was dragged out of him. “I only meant that it shares some things in common with cooking, that’s all. Don’t you think?” He shouldn’t have looked up at Snape. If he hadn’t, he would have missed how the man had leaned back and was eyeing him contemplatively, and he wouldn’t have felt the need to fidget.

“Something on your mind, Potter?” Snape drawled, lifting his eyebrows knowingly.

Harry slouched back in his chair. How did Snape _always_ know when Harry was up to something? Never mind. He didn’t need to ask that question, not really. He was as easy to read as a book sometimes. He often managed to maneuver the Dursleys, but they were so thick, they wouldn’t notice an elephant about to step on them. As much as Snape wanted him to be more like a Slytherin, he had way more practice being a Gryffindor, so accustomed was he to facing challenges head-on. Maybe he’d best stick with the direct approach, then. Or…well, first he could try one more roundabout way of approaching the issue…

“Actually, yes,” he answered, jutting out his chin just enough to give him courage. “Hermione and I were talking about our NEWT years, and we were wondering over some of Hogwarts’ testing rules. Maybe since you’re a professor and all, you’d know the answer?”

Snape cocked his head to the side and gestured for Harry to ask away. He could tell that the man was curious. Good.

“I think I heard someone talk about doing an independent study,” he lied, “and I wondered how that works when it comes time to sit exams. Can they sit a NEWT for that subject without having completed an official course?”

Snape scrutinized him for a long moment. “Don’t tell me that you are planning to partake in an independent study, Potter. What in, History of Quidditch?”

“Why do you assume it’s me?” Harry protested. “Maybe I’m asking for Hermione. Or maybe I’m just curious.”

“Credit me with observational skills,” Snape drawled. “Not only are you quite personally invested in the question, were Miss Granger to be considering a course of independent study, she’d have arranged it with Professor McGonagall well in advance of one week before the start of term.”

Harry had to give him that. “So can they? Sit the NEWT?” he pressed without answering Snape’s question.

“It entirely depends,” Snape said. He crossed his arms and watched Harry with his assessing gaze. “NEWT-level exams are only offered in specific areas of study. However, there are some available that are not on the Hogwarts course curricula. Durmstrang, for instance, offers a course of study on the maintenance and care of dragons alone. Beauxbatons encourages its students to study the arts. Wizard sculpting is all the rage, apparently.” His sneer told what he thought of the usefulness of _that_ skill. “Should a Hogwarts student wish to pursue such studies, they may be able to, provided they obtain the permission of the headmaster and the commitment of a professorial sponsor.”

“Sponsor?”

“To guarantee access to course materials, oversee studies, track assignments and practicals, and submit written permission to the NEWT testing board to administer the appropriate exam at the end of the year.”

“Oh.” His chances of success just kept getting worse and worse, didn’t they?

“If your plan is to study the maintenance and care of dragons, you can save your breath. You’d be better off arranging an apprenticeship with Charles Weasley after graduation. Legend has it that the last time that course was allowed at Hogwarts, an entire wing of the castle was nearly destroyed.”

“Really?” Harry asked, curious despite wanting to stay on track. “When was that?”

Snape waved a hand. “Who knows. A century or two ago, at least.”

“Well, I, uh…don’t want to study dragons,” he said.

“What then?” Snape asked.

“This professor sponsor…” Harry bit his lip. “I suppose it has to be somebody familiar with the area of study?”

“Invariably,” Snape agreed. “Although I highly doubt you’ll find a talented magical ice sculptor on the Hogwarts staff, if that is your desire.”

Harry snorted. He didn’t know if Snape had meant that to be funny, but the thought of McGonagall spending her free time carefully chiseling swans and flowers out of blocks of ice just about made his day. Although…come to think of it, she might not be half bad at such a hobby, with her transfiguration skills.

“No,” he agreed, grinning to himself. “I don’t think I would have much luck there.” Snape gave him a look, as if to say _out with it_ , and Harry took a breath to fortify himself. “What if…the class was already offered at Hogwarts, but I wanted to…study it on my own and take the test anyway?”

Snape stared at him blankly for a moment before barking, “No.”

“Just hear me out-”

“I maintain a high standard for incoming Potions students for a _reason_ , Potter! NEWT Potions is highly specialized and requires an extreme attention to care and detail. Practicing it in a classroom under strict supervision is dangerous enough; I am not about to approve a less accomplished student to study it _independently_ of a classroom environment! Where you would even get such a harebrained idea-”

“I can do the work!” Harry insisted. “And I wouldn’t be unsupervised. Hermione’s offered to tutor me. We’d just need permission to use the lab from time to time after classes are out, and you _know_ she knows what she’s doing!”

“It isn’t her I’m worried about!” he snapped. “And the answer remains no. If you are not a student in my class, then you do not have access to my classroom.”

“Alright fine,” Harry huffed. “I’ll find another classroom then.” He almost brought up the Room of Requirement but decided to keep that plan to himself.

“That is not the point!” Snape hissed. “You cannot simply embark upon an independent study without the headmaster’s permission. And he will never grant you that permission without my agreement to oversee you! As I have no intention of allowing any student to run around Hogwarts concocting dangerous potions in random classrooms, you are, as they say, _out of luck_.”

Harry could have screamed out of frustration, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. Instead, he tried the only thing he had left in his arsenal: appealing to the heart he knew the man had to have buried somewhere underneath all that black clothing. “I want to be an Auror, professor,” he said quietly, willing him to see in his eyes how much it meant to him. “It means the world to me, and that one grade is standing in my way of doing that. _Please_.”

“You should have thought of that before you failed to achieve a more satisfactory grade,” Snape answered without mercy. He hadn’t said it cruelly, but his matter of fact tone was almost worse, because Harry could hear the truth in the words. How could he be angry at Snape when he was the one who hadn’t managed the grade?

He sighed miserably. “And there’s nothing I can do or say..?”

Snape shook his head, though he had the courtesy to not look delighted about kicking Harry’s dreams to the curb. “I would far sooner admit a student into my sixth year class than allow such a thing as an _independent study_ of Potions,” he spat as if merely saying the words violated his most deeply held convictions. “But neither is possible. I have never made an exception to my standards for incoming NEWT students, and I will not start now.”

Harry stared dejectedly at the plate of biscuits before grabbing another one and taking a large bite. It had been a stupid idea, trying to bribe the man with food as if it would make any difference. But at least now he could eat his disappointment away. He wondered offhand if Kneader had chocolate sauce in his pantry. His disappointments could definitely use a biscuit drowned in chocolate sauce.

And he definitely wasn’t asking about his mum right now. A boy could only deal with so many disappointed hopes in one day. He stuffed the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and chewed as he watched Snape watch him. The man seemed to be saying _your move, Mr. Potter_ , never mind that Harry was out of moves.

Well…

He swallowed his food, took a sip of tea, and asked, “What if I proved to you that I was up to your standards?”

Snape’s eyebrows pinched together. “ _Potter_ -”

“I was under a lot of stress when I took that exam, you know. Not an excuse, mind,” he rushed to add. “But if it’s my overall skill you’re worried about, one exam could be wrong. Give me a test, any test, as long as you know it’s fair, and let me try to meet your standards. If I do, let me into the class. If I don’t, I’ll never say another word about it.”

“Don’t you ever give up?”

“I’m learning how not to,” Harry said honestly.

“You forget that I’ve had you in my class for five years. I know what kind of brewer you are. I do not need for you to sit a special exam to know that you are not up to par.”

Okay, Harry could admit, if only to himself, that the professor had a point there. But he could make good points too. “ _You_ forget that every Potions class you’ve seen me in has been in the presence of an intimidating professor who hated my guts and, to the best of my knowledge, was plotting out ways to kill me. You can’t possibly expect me to not make mistakes with that kind of pressure constantly lurking about!” He thought he might have crossed the line, as Snape was sporting a rather sour look, but…it was the truth!

“Performing under pressure is one of the most important skills for an advanced Potions student to have cultivated prior to taking on their NEWTs.”

Harry opened his mouth and promptly shut it, hating that Snape was such a good arguer. But, he reminded himself, at least the man was arguing. If he was arguing then he was still engaging with the conversation, and if he was still engaging, then he hadn’t shut the idea down yet…which meant that Harry needed to keep going in case there was the slightest chance of success.

Before he could formulate his next argument, Snape had tacked on, “Additionally, were you to make another attempt, that _same_ professor would be decidedly present, watchful as ever, and unlikely to make any silly overtures to put you at ease!” Yep, Harry had definitely offended him.

He shrugged to show what he thought of that. “Yeah, but I won’t be as nervous since this time I’ll know you’re not trying to kill me.”

“Do you now?” Snape growled.

Harry grinned in answer, probably too cheekily, but the man had practically asked for it.

Snape sneered, but it wasn’t up to his usual abilities. “It is a moot point. I already told you that I do not make exceptions for students. Not even _Harry Potter_.”

“You mean _especially_ not for Harry Potter.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “Though I think you know by now that I don’t expect or want that. Anyway, I’m not asking for an exception, not technically. An exception would be for you to let me in even if I’m a bad student. All I’m asking for is an exam to show you that I’m a good enough student to be admitted to the class in the first place. Per your _usual standards_.”

“A second chance that I have never offered, and therefore would be making an _exception_ were I to offer it to you.”

“It’s _not_ an exception if you were to allow the same of any student who asked. I just happen to be the only one who asked, right? That’s hardly _my_ fault.”

“Ah, yes…I can see it now: a line of sixth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs outside my office door once it spreads around Hogwarts that I am allowing makeup OWLs.” The professor visibly shuddered.

“I think you’re overestimating your class’s popularity,” Harry pointed out.

Snape growled again, this time without words.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Just telling it like it is. You’re the one who cultivates the scary Potions professor image. Don’t jump down my throat for telling you that it’s working.”

“I do not cultivate an image,” Snape said sharply. “I _am_ a frightening Potions professor. And you would do well to remember it.”

“See, if you had me in your class, you could remind me as often as you like,” Harry said with a carefully straight face.

Snape shook his head. “You are one of the most incorrigible teenagers I know.”

“Thank you,” Harry smartly replied.

Snape helped himself to another biscuit, which Harry thought was a good idea. He didn’t want the man’s temple veins to start to throb or anything, not when Harry seemed to be gaining ground. It also gave Harry a minute to consider whether it was wise to talk up his ability to pass whatever test the professor could come up with. He’d been impressed by his own grade of Exceeds Expectations, and he truly wasn’t at all confident that he’d be capable of pulling off the equivalent of an Outstanding. It was his only shot though, and if he could manage to _get_ that shot, he’d put everything he had into trying.

He let the silence linger while the professor ate a few bites and sipped his tea, surveying Harry all the while. “ _If_ ,” Snape finally said, “I were to do something so uncharacteristically generous as what you suggest, what benefit would there be to me? More students to run wild in my classroom? You may not realize this, but unlike the bulk of tedious instructing I do each day, I do actually look forward to my NEWT classes.”

“Helping students achieve their hopes and dreams isn’t enough?” asked Harry innocently.

“Do I seem the type to care about the hopes and dreams of the pimply-faced youth I am forced to babysit each day?” asked Snape, perfectly serious.

“No,” admitted Harry, “but you’ve been telling me all summer to figure out how to do things that don’t particularly excite me. Sometimes you do something because it’s the right thing to do, not because it gives you joy.”

“Oh, so now you’re moralizing to get your way?” Snape gave him a sardonic look. “Come now, you can do better than that.”

“It would win you good will?” he tried. “Never underestimate somebody else being beholden to you.”

“I never cared for the good will of others,” the man shot back.

Good point. Harry wracked his brain. He had the feeling Snape was only humoring him so far because he was curious how far Harry would take it, what arguments he would come up with. It was hard to tell if Snape would truly consider it or if he was simply enjoying watching Harry try to bend unbendable steel.

He heard the front door open and close, which kicked his brain into overdrive. He didn’t have much time left to convince the man of his point of view.

“Do you care about the state of the wizarding world?” he blurted out. “Knowing that you’re contributing to the ranks of the Aurors, making sure to give them a candidate who knows his way around potions-making…that isn’t nothing, you know. With how involved you’ve been in the war, how many incompetent people you’ve probably come across, I’d think you would put a high importance on that.”

“Do you have no other appeals than to my better nature?” scoffed Snape, “assuming I have one.”

“You do,” said Harry immediately. “I’ve seen it. Anyway, what other appeals would you have me make? I’m hardly going to bribe you.”

“Merlin have mercy,” muttered Snape, looking to the ceiling. “Don’t tell me your sudden interest in academic pursuits are about to make an extorter out of you.”

“Ha. Ha. I said _not_ going to.” His heart sank as Kneader rounded the corner, took in their books and snacks with his hawk eyes, and nodded a silent hello on his way to the pantry. Maybe he’d be lucky and the man wouldn’t linger. Harry wasn’t finished with this conversation.

Only, it appeared that Snape was. “You make a fascinating case, Mr. Potter,” he said in his _I’ve humored you long enough_ tone. “I will take it under advisement.”

Under advisement? Harry stared, hardly daring to hope. “That doesn’t sound like a no…” he fished.

“Would you prefer a definitive answer? I can certainly-”

“Nope,” said Harry quickly. “No definitive answer needed. I’m good. You take your time, think about it, get back to me. I’ll be…um, finishing my Herbology essay now.” He shoved his plate aside and reached for his Herbology book and mostly finished essay.

He didn’t miss Snape’s smirk, and he ducked his head and raised his teacup to his lips so that Snape wouldn’t see his own grin.

It was hardly a victory, but it was far from the failure Harry had expected. All things considered, maybe he had a future in making lame biscuit-centric plans work out after all.


	36. Boundaries

It wasn’t yet dawn. Harry blinked heavily in his dark room, registering that he was still at the safe house. He had no idea what had awoken him, only that he now heard the faint murmur of indecipherable voices seeping through the walls.

He burrowed down into his comfortable bed. It was far softer than his beds at Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place, loads better than his hard, lumpy mattress at the Dursleys, and Harry felt as though he were safely tucked into a nice, warm cloud. He started to drift back to sleep when a faint clinking sound roused him again. He yawned and blinked up at the ceiling. His brain was waking up, and there was little he could do about it.

He sat up slowly, stretching first one arm and then the other, before swiveling his legs out of the bed. He wasn’t ready to face the blinding light of his lamp, so he felt his way to the door in the darkness and placed his ear against it. The wood was too thick to make out anything. From the deep sounds of the muffled voices, he knew that at least two men were conversing. Snape and Kneader, then. They were the only men in residence who would be awake. Well, unless any other Order members had arrived in the night. But from what Snape had said, he doubted anyone else would be joining them for a few days at least.

His hand hovered over the doorknob, but he hesitated, unsure about interrupting whatever conversation was going on at such a late - or early - hour. He darted his eyes toward his trunk, though he could barely make out its outline in the darkness. An idea was brewing in his head…

He tiptoed to his trunk - though he was certain they wouldn’t be listening for him - and blindly rooted through its contents until he found what he was looking for. He grinned, slipping his Weasleys’ Wizard Wall Watchers onto his face. He’d have to remember to thank the twins next time he saw them. Who knew such a gift would come in handy on more than one occasion?

_Light._ He slammed his eyes shut as the light from the living room hit his eyes. Ooh, he should have squinted first.

While he got used to the light, the voices became clear, immediately recognizable as belonging to Snape and Kneader.

“-should return soon, and then we can make other arrangements,” Snape was saying.

“He won’t rush things, you know,” Kneader replied. As Harry got used to the light, he could see that they were angled opposite each other in Kneader’s comfortable armchairs. He could see Snape from his vantage point, but Kneader was only in profile. Kneader swished around a drink he held in his hand. Ice cubes clinked against the side of the glass, explaining the sound Harry had heard before. “We need as many allies as we can get. If he’s got to be there to make sure others are in place to hold off You-Know-Who’s influence, that’s what he’ll do.”

“He is not blind to his priorities.” Snape took a sip from his own glass. “As the leader of the Light, he has many matters needing his attention, few of which are as important to him as ensuring the protection of that boy in there. In light of the Dark Lord’s latest gambit to root out Potter, Dumbledore won’t be staying away longer than he must.”

Kneader tipped his glass to his lips, swigging down a fair amount more than Snape had, then set his glass aside. “And he trusts the werewolf, does he?”

Harry immediately felt indignant on Remus’s behalf. Just because he was a werewolf didn’t mean he should be suspected all the time!

“Implicitly,” answered Snape with a sneer. “When not compromised, at any rate. Lupin is hopelessly sentimental and slow to act, but even I cannot deny that he has provided valuable service to the Order. Furthermore, Albus appreciates the bond that he shares with Potter.” Snape frowned and helped himself to another sip before adding, “The boy trusts him.”

“Should he not?”

Snape stared into his glass for a few seconds. “That child is too trusting of his friends, too wary of everyone else.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.” Kneader’s voice was amused.

Snape shot him a mild glare. “Don’t be ridiculous, old man. I have no friends.”

“So you keep saying.” Kneader smiled pleasantly and offered Snape more to drink.

Harry shook his head at Snape even though the man couldn’t see him. While he didn’t appreciate being discussed like that, he was more interested in Snape’s claim that he didn’t have friends. Was that really true, he wondered, or did Snape simply prefer to think that? Because it sure seemed to Harry like Kneader was his professor’s friend. And Harry knew that the man had had friends in his school days…probably his Death Eater days too. What in the world would cause somebody to close themselves off from people to the extent that they neither claimed nor desired friendships?

Snape had always been an enigma, but he seemed even more so now that Harry was curious about him not only as his professor, but as his mum’s friend. He was now an enigma that Harry really, truly wanted to understand.

“Lupin can be trusted,” Snape was admitting, though it seemed to pain him to do so. “Especially where Potter is concerned.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Kneader, leaning back into his sofa. “Though I’m not sure what good the man will be in a fight. I’ve tapered him off of the sleeping draught, and still he was dog tired all day.”

“I noticed,” Snape commented, seemingly unconcerned. “Effects of his capture, perhaps. Or a possible side effect of the prolonged use of Wolfsbane Potion. I’ll need to ask him about it before Dumbledore notices and nags at me to do so.”

“How very commendable of you,” Kneader said, and though his face had turned away, Harry knew by his tone that he was teasing Snape. It made Harry smile, knowing that at least one other person in Snape’s life dared to tease him.

Snape gave their host a mild glare that clearly advised him to shut up.

Instead, Kneader completely changed the subject. “I wouldn’t think Dumbledore would allow the use of blood quills at Hogwarts. Rather dark, that. Quite surprises me, given his stance on other ‘cruel and unusual’ punishments.”

“Blood quills?” Snape looked at him as if he were crazy. “I don’t know where you came up with that idea. He would never allow those monstrosities at Hogwarts.”

“That isn’t how Potter tells it,” Kneader said, and Harry heaved a long, annoyed sigh. Why did adults have to remember _everything_ he said in the heat of the moment and repeat them to others? He hadn’t said anything about the blood quill being used on _him_ , but now Snape was going to assume it, wasn’t he? Unless he decided Harry was lying. Maybe he would think Harry was lying. One could only hope. The man had learned quite enough embarrassing things about him this summer, thank-you-very-much.

“And pray tell, how does Potter tell it?” Snape leaned forward slightly.

Kneader shrugged. “He seemed a bit incensed about his last Defense teacher. Was rather opposed to her ‘propaganda,’ as he told it. And said she used blood quills in detention, that sort of thing.”

Snape stared at Kneader with narrowed eyes. “In _his_ detention?”

“Didn’t say,” the older man answered, “but I’d bet a few Galleons on it.”

“Of course she did.” Snape set down his glass hard enough to jar the end table. “Because who _hasn’t_ abused the boy lately?”

“Have you?” Kneader asked so matter-of-factly that it took both Snape and Harry by surprise. He could tell Snape was surprised because the man stared at Kneader with a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Have I _abused_ him?” he clarified, face tightening.

“You have a temper and have never hidden your dislike of the boy,” Kneader said pointedly, and Harry could tell this was a man unaccustomed to beating around the bush. “It is a reasonable question.”

Snape stared at him for a long minute before answering, “yes,” and picking up his glass again. He didn’t take a drink, just swished the liquid, watching the ice clink within the glass. He didn’t volunteer any details, for which Harry was grateful. Harry wasn’t even sure what to make of that one-word admission. He wouldn’t have expected Snape to admit even that much…and he really wanted to go in there and ask him if that meant he regretted how he’d treated Harry in the past.

Of course, he wasn’t suicidal enough to actually do that.

Kneader nodded as if he’d expected that answer, accepted it even. “But things have changed..?” he prompted.

Snape waved away the question as if to shoo away a fly.

“Speaking of the boy…” Kneader redirected in the face of Snape’s obvious discomfort. “I’ve been surprised by a few things since meeting him.”

Snape cleared his throat and said dryly, “I don’t doubt it. He does live to wreak havoc wherever he goes.” Harry narrowed his eyes at the professor. It wasn’t _Harry’s_ fault that trouble so often followed him around. Okay, well…it wasn’t _always_ his fault.

“Is that so? Not that I doubt you, understand,” Kneader said calmly. “He is quieter than I’d imagined, is all. Not shy. More…Serious. Withdrawn.”

“He’d just been dragged from headquarters, which he assumed was under attack by the Dark Lord, and sent to stay in a stranger’s home with his injured and drugged favorite teacher and his comatose best friend in tow. Did you expect for him to start bouncing off the walls?”

“Not as such. I’d not have been caught off guard by a few demands, however. He is the honored guest, the mighty Boy Who Lived. I expected a little prince, found instead a generally polite young man, reluctant to be a bother, and exceedingly wary of strangers. Yet somehow defiant and strong-willed at the same time. Quite the combination of traits. Kid’s got to learn some patience and impulse control, but on the whole, it was a pleasant surprise, really.”

“You’ve learned plenty about him in three days.” Snape seemed put out. Harry wondered if it was because it had taken Snape five years to start to get to know the real Harry.

“I am observant, Severus. And I observe that, unlike I’d been led to believe, someone, somewhere, taught him manners.”

“Or to know his place,” Snape said darkly.

“Pardon?”

Harry was certain that Snape was thinking of the Dursleys, and he was relieved when Snape waved the question away without elaborating and said instead, “Just wait. His self-sacrificing urges can be more aggravating than delusions of grandeur ever would have been.”

Harry aimed his best glare at Snape through the wall.

“Hmm. My point, Severus, is that I’d compiled a rather different mental picture from the way you spoke of him before.”

“I do not believe we’ve ever conversed about him before,” Snape corrected mildly, pouring himself more to drink. Harry absently wondered how much they’d already had to drink. Shouldn’t they be getting a bit tipsy by now? But then, they’d mainly been sipping, and he had no gauge to compare to. He’d only seen Vernon tipsy a few times, and he’d been more concerned with avoiding the man’s exaggerated rage in that state than wondering about the quantity of alcohol it had taken to get there.

“Eh. Maybe not as such,” Kneader conceded. “The way your face got darker than a storm cloud whenever The Boy Who Lived was mentioned, then. I also seem to recall a few muttered phrases under your breath, something along the lines of ‘arrogant, spoiled, good for nothing truant of a miscreant.’ My own paraphrase, but I think that was the gist.”

“Yes. Well.” Snape cleared his throat and admitted, “I may have said a _few_ words about the boy out loud, and it is _possible_ that you were nearby at the time.”

They fell silent for a few moments, then Kneader circled back around to prompt, “Changed your mind, then?”

“I didn’t say that,” Snape said stubbornly.

“Didn’t have to. I’ve got eyes as well as ears, remember?”

Snape slowly crossed one leg over the other. “I may have…broadened my perception of the boy’s attributes.”

Kneader chuckled. “You have the best turns of phrase I’ve ever known, Severus. What a perfect way of saying you’ve changed your mind about the boy without outright admitting that you were wrong.”

Snape shot him an annoyed look and took a sip of his drink. He didn’t respond.

Harry settled more comfortably on the floor. This was turning into a fascinating conversation. When else was he going to get to know what Snape really thought of him? He crossed his legs and leaned forward, hanging onto their every word.

Kneader spoke up again. “Something else I noticed-”

“Oh, would you stop noticing things, Ephraim?” Snape broke in.

“I could try.” Kneader shrugged. “But what would be the fun in that? I do have so few amusements in my solitary life, you know.”

Snape shot him a look of exasperation and grumbled, “Well, get on with it then.”

“The boy’s grown attached to you,” Kneader said almost questioningly, and Snape downed the small amount of liquid in his glass. Harry felt his ears heat up, even without anybody around to see. Great. Just great. Harry knew Snape didn’t want any real closeness between them, and now that somebody had voiced his worries out loud, Snape was sure to pull away. Harry glared at Kneader’s profile.

“We have overcome some of our differences,” Snape said carefully. “We have replaced them with a certain degree of…trust. Additionally, a misguided feeling of closeness is only natural due to the nature of the lessons I am providing to him. It is all new to him. Whatever ‘attachment’ you think you see will no doubt dissipate as soon as he is back at school, surrounded by his friends and favored professors, and my tutoring is no longer needed.”

“Are you certain about that?” Kneader prodded.

Snape shot him a look that said he was a fool for asking.

“He was worried about you before you arrived. Spent all day watching for your return.”

“He was worried for news of headquarters,” Snape corrected. “His best friend’s family was there and he had no way of knowing the Dark Lord was not getting ready to attack.”

“I’ve watched him over the last several days, Severus. He hangs on your every word. He looks up to you, is curious about you.”

“Perish the thought,” Snape said dryly, though the rigid way he held himself betrayed his discomfort with the conversation.

Kneader didn’t push it further, instead taking a different tack. “I noticed something else interesting. Would you care to hear?”

“Do I have a choice?” Snape snapped back.

“The boy’s not the only one forming an attachment,” said Kneader and held up a hand when Snape started to protest. “Deny all you want, it’s obvious that you care about him.”

“Of course I care what happens to him,” Snape bit out. “He is in my charge. It is my duty to protect him. Dumbledore will murder me if I allow harm to come to him.”

“Oh, don’t get all dodgy on me, Severus. It’s obvious you worry about him, and not merely because Dumbledore put you up to it. That kind of worry isn’t something you do out of duty.”

“I do not _worry_.” Snape sneered. “It’s a good thing, too. That boy would cause an actual guardian an ulcer inside of a day, always getting into trouble, even when trouble isn’t actively searching him out.”

Kneader was silent. Harry couldn’t see his face in full, but he thought it showed a fair amount of skepticism. Well, so did Harry’s. He could no longer deny that he had started to look up to Snape, to feel close to him in a way that Snape wouldn’t want, to feel a need to find out more about the man. And he wasn’t an idiot; he knew a lot of that was due to the mental intimacy of Occlumency lessons and his newfound knowledge of the man’s friendship with Harry’s mum. But the idea that _Snape_ felt a similar way about _him_? That was ridiculous. Sure, Harry was fairly certain that Snape didn’t hate him anymore, maybe even that he found Harry’s presence tolerable most days, but that was a far cry from…well, _caring_.

Kneader was a crackpot old coot if he thought that.

Although…he had a nagging thought that Kneader’s words sounded eerily similar to Hermione’s observations of the other day. Could they _both_ be wrong? Or was there something more to Snape’s recent willingness to help Harry and listen to him and answer his questions? Was it possible that the man cared, even a little bit, about Harry beyond his role in the war? He didn’t think so, but he was surprised by the thought that he wouldn’t hate it if the man did…

Kneader finally broke the silence, saying softly, “Dumbledore worries about _you_ , you know. I’m certain he didn’t - not on a personal level - when you first began working together, but you see, that is what happens over time when you start to care about the wellbeing of someone other than yourself. I can see where you’d be confused, there not having been many people close to you worth caring for.”

“Shut it, old man.” There wasn’t much venom behind the words. If anything, Snape looked exhausted by the conversation.

Kneader leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I recall a conversation we had once, long ago in this very room. You told me that you didn’t want your fear of turning into your father to hold you back. How is that working out for you?”

“How do you think?” Snape said tiredly.

“I think,” said Kneader evenly, “that you do not believe yourself capable of being anything more than what you have been to that boy or to anyone else, and so you have decided to not even try.”

“And why do you imply that I should?” Snape hissed. “He has plenty of people in his life to guide him. I hardly think that an ex-Death Eater-”

“There are things about him that others in his life cannot understand,” Kneader said with confidence, “aren’t there? You’ve made it clear that he is not a stranger to abuse. Even at his young age, it is obvious that he struggles with the weight of a destiny he did not choose, and with the consequences of past decisions. You cannot tell me that his werewolf friend or even the headmaster himself understands the combined weight of such things quite so completely as you do. And I think that on some level, the boy himself recognizes it.”

“If he _were_ so astute,” Snape sneered, “then surely he’d have also recognized that my method of dealing with such things is hardly something to be emulated.”

“Perhaps it is time for you to develop habits worthy of emulation,” Kneader countered.

“I do hope you know how thoroughly I regret coming here,” muttered Snape. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong…”

Kneader leaned back into his chair. “We’ve known each other for, what, fifteen years? A bit less? You’ve come a long way from the broken young man Dumbledore plopped on my doorstep after the war. I think you can go a long way yet. Perhaps the wounds that you’ve bandaged with solitude and bitterness would be better healed through the connection that comes with taking an active interest in another’s well-being.”

Snape held himself rigidly, white knuckles curled around his empty glass.

Kneader seemed to know that he’d pushed as far as he could, for he finally heeded Snape’s wishes and abruptly changed the subject. “The other boy. Ron, was it? I’ve an idea, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

_Ron?_ Harry’s heart skipped a beat and he inched closer to the wall, as if that would make the man’s words come out faster. He pushed aside all the talk of Harry himself for later consideration - and there was _plenty_ there to consider. He was more than eager to know any news of Ron’s condition.

Snape took a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a minute, he answered, “We’ve tried almost everything we know to do. Research, diagnostic spells, potions. I have a few more potions maturing at headquarters we can attempt to administer in a week or two, but beyond that…we are at a loss. Believe me, any idea will be welcome.”

“Worried about him too, are you?” Kneader said teasingly, and Harry was a little bit awed by the man’s nerve. He’d never known anybody but Dumbledore who could say whatever he liked to Snape and reach the other side of the conversation unscathed.

“Not in the slightest,” Snape shuddered. “He is a Weasley. He has plenty of people to worry over him. Including Potter.”

“He matters to Potter.”

“Yes.”

“Which matters to you,” Kneader said in a knowing tone.

Snape frowned. He then gestured impatiently. “Your idea?”

“I’ve seen many curses in my Healer days,” he began. “This case is different…but it brings to mind a patient that I had upside of twenty years ago. Took us ages to determine what was wrong with the woman. Only figured it out by chance, really…” Kneader paused and looked straight at Snape. “I think that we should consider a Dual Curse.”

Snape’s frown deepened, and he leaned forward, waiting for Kneader to go on. Harry leaned forward too and reminded himself to breathe.

Kneader explained, “His symptoms are not following any of the typical curses that would result in such a state. However, if combined with another, less detectable curse, which could mask or change some of the symptoms…”

“We could easily miss an obvious diagnosis,” Snape filled in. “Yes, it is theoretically possible, but to achieve such specific results would require extensive preparation for the curses to work in tandem. The effects of both curses would need to be planned with precision. What purpose would the Dark Lord or his followers have of purposely putting Weasley into a comatose state? It serves no purpose. It seems far more likely that they intended to capture him as bait for Potter and he was caught in the path of a wayward curse when they failed.”

“How did you find out about the attack?”

Snape didn’t answer, and Harry could practically see the wheels turning in his head as the man thought through Kneader’s ideas.

“Is it possible that whatever source warned you of the attack was compromised? Or that the information was given to them on purpose?”

“What are you suggesting?” Snape asked slowly.

“I am suggesting the possibility - just a possibility - that the Order did not, in fact, hold off the Death Eaters when they attacked the Weasleys. What if You-Know-Who tipped off the Order, wanted them there, then wanted us to think we had won, that the Weasleys had escaped, only to attach a curse to the boy that would somehow lead them straight to Potter?”

Snape was speechless, eyes betraying both his surprise at the theory and his horror at the implications. Harry thought that his face probably looked the same…but his brain was moving too slowly, trying to put it together…

“The Weasley boy is Harry Potter’s best friend,” Kneader went on. “His family are also known members of the Order. You-Know-Who is a strategist. Erratic at times, but a strategist at heart. He’d reasonably assume that if this Ron and his family needed protection or treatment, they would very likely be hidden alongside Potter.”

Snape shook his head. “No. Any variation of a location spell would never circumvent the extensive wards at headquarters, much less the Fidelius Charm.”

“Typically true,” Kneader said softly. “But…with a way to guarantee the spell would remain active for a long period of time - hidden within a seemingly unbreakable sleeping curse, for example - perhaps strengthened or triggered were Potter to come into direct contact with the boy… With a wizard of incredible skill, it could be a simple matter of time to narrow down to an _approximate location._ ”

“At which point,” Snape added in a near whisper, “knowing that he could trace no farther and deducing that the Fidelius Charm was in play, he’d use what knowledge he had to force Potter to move to a new location, one more easily traced.”

“My home is not so easy to trace,” Kneader pointed out.

“Easier than headquarters.” Snape stood and started to pace the room. “It would still take time, but there is no Fidelius Charm in play here. If your theory has any merit, it will be only a matter of time before he finds our _specific_ location.”

“If I am correct,” said Kneader. “We should separate the Weasley boy from Potter.”

“Yes,” Snape agreed readily, “but that will not solve another problem. If they locate Weasley, they will still attack. And if he is found without Potter, they will use him as bait. Potter won’t stand by and watch his friend be harmed on his account. He will turn himself over to the Dark Lord without hesitation, and he will find a way around any attempts to stop him. We can’t let that happen. Weasley too must be protected at all costs.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you have a way to detect the curses placed upon him, to isolate them individually?”

Kneader shook his head. “If it _is_ a Dual Curse, they are too intricately linked and therefore undetectable in their individual parts. The only way to treat the boy is to find out the specific combination of curses used and then to develop a counter-curse that will target both simultaneously. And the only way to find out that information…”

“Is from the very Death Eaters who cursed him,” Snape finished, shoulders dropping in defeat. They were silent for several minutes, which was unfortunate for Harry, as he now had time to dwell on what he’d heard. His heart was pounding, and he was having trouble taking a breath. He felt this way sometimes after nightmares, and this was worse than any nightmare. He pressed a hand over his chest and tried to breathe.

Had Voldemort been playing him all along? As far back as with the vision about attacking the Burrow? Had Ron been intentionally cursed in this way in order to find Harry? The men were talking again in the other room, but his ears were ringing and he couldn’t think and he couldn’t register what was being said. He yanked the Wall Watchers off of his face, plunging his vision into the darkness of his room, where the only sound was the rasp of his breath and the barely audible murmur of indistinct voices through the wall.

He stood on shaky legs and immediately sat down again. If Kneader’s theory was true, what did it mean for Ron? For Harry? For everybody who was with him? How could they hope to be safe if Voldemort was always one step ahead? If he had more access to Harry’s mind than he’d imagined?

Were _any_ of his visions this summer real? Had Voldemort sent all of his visions on purpose, or were some still accidental? There was no reason to send the one about Mrs. Figg, no reason at all. And of course, there was the one about Snape, when he was tortured after being found a spy… That _had_ to be true.

Didn’t it?

A chill ran through his body. He’d _seen_ Snape after he was tortured. He knew it was real. But so was the vision about attacking the Burrow. Voldemort hadn’t lied or portrayed anything false; he’d simply wanted Harry to see it. _If_ Kneader’s theory was true, that is. He still didn’t know if it was true. He took in a gasping breath. But it made so much _sense…_

Voldemort easily could have made it look like Snape was caught out as a spy, only to turn around and plant the man close to Harry so that he could gain his trust and then turn on Harry in the end.

But Snape _had_ to be on their side, Harry argued with himself. He had protected him from Voldemort. He’d had plenty of opportunity, alone with Harry at the Dursleys and Grimmauld Place, to incapacitate Harry and deliver him to Voldemort. But he hadn’t. He’d gone out of his way to warn Harry, to keep him safe. He’d even given him a way to call for help… He touched the ring briefly with his thumb to remind himself that it was there.

Unless it was all a part of Voldemort’s plan to get Harry to trust Snape…

No! Snape had helped Harry with Occlumency. Harry had wondered last year if Snape was purposely opening his mind, making it easier for Voldemort to get in. But this time he knew he was making progress. For the first time, he’d managed to pull himself out of a vision without help. He’d managed to block a Legilimens from gaining access to certain memories. He was starting to be able to focus better, to wall off emotion and thought, even if he still had a long way to go. Snape was teaching him, really teaching him, not just pretending to.

_Dumbledore_ trusted Snape. _Other Harry_ thought he should trust him too. And as much as Harry was second guessing all of Voldemort’s visions, he still trusted in his dreams of the future. They came from inside himself, not from Voldemort. If he was certain about anything, he was certain about that. He _knew_ , deep down in his heart, that he could trust those. They came from deep within his own soul.

And if he couldn’t trust himself, who could he trust?

So he would trust Snape. He _had_ to…because if he let himself doubt Snape right now, then he would find himself completely and utterly adrift.

He tried to stand again, and this time his legs supported him. He crossed over to the lamp and turned it on, knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping again for a good long while.

_Why_ had he allowed himself to be lulled into a feeling of safety for so long? Sure, he’d been stressed about Voldemort, but he hadn’t truly thought the dark wizard had an actual plan - with an actual chance of success - to locate him. He’d been imagining him blindly searching, telling his followers to keep a look out, haphazardly going after Harry’s friends on the off chance it could bear fruit in the search. But no - Voldemort hadn’t been doing anything haphazardly, had he? He’d known exactly what he was doing, each step of the way, even biding his time to do it, and now Ron might be a ticking time bomb of an advanced tracking spell and Harry’s mind was a blank slate for Voldemort to write upon whatever and whenever he wished and-

Harry suddenly felt incredibly, deeply violated.

He felt tears of frustration and fear welling up. He wanted to scream but held it in. Instead, he channeled his frustration into kicking the bedside table. The lamp wobbled and he scrambled forward to catch it, instead knocking it further askew. It crashed to the ground in a cacophony of ripping cord and broken glass, plunging his room back into darkness.

He winced, waiting…

Sure enough, mere seconds later, his bedroom door was shoved open and he was bathed in light from the other room. He didn’t have to look up to know that Snape was standing in the doorway.

He stood there, facing the broken lamp, and waited for the lecture. He should have just gone with the urge to scream, he thought morosely. More explaining, less property damage. Kneader surely wouldn’t think he was a _polite young man_ after he’d destroyed his lamp.

The bedroom light flicked on and Harry slammed his eyes shut against the brightness. He felt Snape come up beside him but didn’t look over. The tears continued to gather behind his eyelids, and he didn’t dare open them. If he did, he would cry in front of Snape.

He _really_ didn’t want to cry in front of Snape.

“All right?” the man asked softly, and Harry managed a jerky nod. “What happened?”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t making the strongest case for being left alone, but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would accidentally let loose a sob. He willed the man to just let it go and leave.

But this was _Snape_. The man couldn’t help putting his abnormally large nose into Harry’s business. Harry swallowed and turned his head away. He hadn’t meant that thought. Not really. He appreciated everything the man had done for him lately. He just really didn’t want to face him right now when all he wanted was to bury himself in his covers and cry for Ron and for himself…mainly for not even having control over his own mind.

That last thought made his heart pound again, and he sucked in a sharp breath. If Voldemort had so much access to his mind, what was to stop him from manipulating Harry in other ways? He didn’t think he’d try to possess him again, but he might have other ways of deceiving Harry, controlling his thoughts or actions. What else could he make him believe, manipulate him into doing? Harry barely registered his breathing coming in sharp gasps when he felt arms shoving him over to sit on his bed.

He couldn’t breathe. He actually couldn’t breathe. A wheezing groan came from somewhere in his chest, and his hand fumbled for something to hold onto. He clutched a handful of cloth between his fingers, not caring that it was attached to Snape, and tried to suck in air where there wasn’t any.

“Potter. Look at me! Open your eyes and look at me.”

He obeyed, barely registering that doing so let tears escape. He saw a blackness at the edge of his vision and clutched the cloth tighter. Was this how he was going to die? Because it was a really, really pathetic way to die after everything he’d been through.

“You’re having another panic attack. You think you can’t breathe, but you can.”

He couldn’t. He tried but he couldn’t. His free hand clawed frantically at his throat.

“Slow.” Snape caught Harry’s hand in a firm grasp and held onto his shoulder with the other. He stooped so that his eyes were directly in front of Harry’s. “Just one breath, Harry. One slow breath. Match mine.” He placed Harry’s hand on his own chest and took a slow, exaggerated breath.

Harry focused on Snape. His steady eyes, his slow-moving chest, and felt a small, shaky trickle of air enter his lungs.

“Good. Again.”

Air. Little by little, breath by breath, the blackness receded from Harry’s vision and his gasps slowed into measured breaths. But that left the tears to flow, and he was too exhausted to try to stop them. As soon as Snape saw that he wasn’t in danger of death by panic attack, he stood up. But Harry couldn’t let him go. He kept hold of what he realized was a fist full of Snape’s shirt and leaned forward, resting his forehead in the center of Snape’s lower chest. It was awkward, sitting this way, leaning only his head against the man, but he needed this, so he took it even while bracing himself to be pushed away.

Snape stilled. He probably hadn’t been expecting to be used as a human pillow - even standing up - but he didn’t push Harry away. So Harry tightened his hold and let the tears flow, trying to take deep, measured breaths. It was hard to do while crying. After a particularly ragged breath ended in a hiccup, Snape put his hands on Harry’s shoulders. It wasn’t a hug, and there was no attempt to soothe him, but it was comfort. And it helped.

After his tears had slowed and his breathing came easier, Snape quietly asked, “Nightmare?”

Harry shook his head, which was hard to do with his forehead still attached to Snape. He reluctantly lifted up his head, knowing that he could only push the man’s limits so far and for so long. He didn’t meet Snape’s eyes as he pulled away and wiped at his wet face with his sleeve.

“Vision?” Snape’s tone was more urgent.

“No,” Harry croaked. He never wanted to have another vision again as long as he lived. Not that he knew how to stop them completely yet. Nor that he would necessarily have a long life, for that matter.

“I was not aware that you regularly suffer from panic attacks.”

“I don’t,” Harry denied automatically.

“Ah. Yes, I can see that,” Snape drawled. “My mistake.”

Harry let go of Snape’s shirt, realizing belatedly that he was still clutching it. He watched as the man smoothed it with one hand, but even without his glasses on, he could tell that the fabric was hopelessly wrinkled.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. It’s a good thing he was so mentally and physically exhausted, Harry decided, for it helped him to shove aside most of his embarrassment for later.

Snape didn’t acknowledge the apology, just asked, “Do you require a potion?”

Harry started to shake his head but stopped mid-shake as he thought better of it. He already had plenty of Dreamless Sleep potion in his trunk, but if he was going to stop these visions, it might not be a bad idea to accept more any time it was offered. “More Dreamless Sleep?” he asked, glancing up quickly.

Snape nodded and left without a word. Harry heard a brief murmur of Snape’s and Kneader’s voices before a door opened, then closed, and seconds later, Snape was again in front of him, this time holding out a vial of purple potion.

He accepted it with a quiet “thanks,” but Snape didn’t make to leave. The silence stretched awkwardly until Harry finally looked up questioningly. Snape was watching him, though Harry couldn’t see his expression very well. Was he waiting until he’d consumed the potion..? Harry hadn’t really planned to, not then anyway. He wanted to think a while before he fell back asleep. He wasn’t even sure if it was the middle of the night or near dawn. Maybe he’d just stay up until everyone else was awake, hold onto the potion until tomorrow.

Snape cleared his throat. Harry thought he might have been about to say something, but it looked like he changed his mind, for he only said, “Good night, Potter,” and left.

Well, tried to leave. His foot caught and kicked something of Harry’s across the floor as he passed the trunk. Harry watched absently as the man’s fuzzy form bent to pick it up, and only then did he remember that he’d dropped the Wall Watchers. His eyes widened in alarm, and he tried desperately to school his features as Snape folded the glasses and placed them on Harry’s bedside table…right next to Harry’s actual glasses.

Snape paused and looked at Harry, close enough for him to see the puzzlement in his eyes. And Harry knew the moment his act of innocence failed to fool the man, as puzzlement gave way to suspicion.

“I got another pair,” Harry blurted. “Just in case.”

Snape kept staring, and Harry knew the heat creeping up his face would betray him. “Your _generous_ relatives bought you a second pair of glasses, did they?” he asked smoothly, with the skill of a professor used to rooting out the secrets and misdeeds of his students.

“No,” he answered a moment too late to be convincing. “They were a gift. From Hermione.” He’d have to get Hermione alone first thing tomorrow to back him up. “Self-adjusting. She got tired of me always asking what teachers’d written on the board.”

_That_ part was true, at least.

But Snape wasn’t fooled. Watching Harry steadily, he picked up the Wall Watchers and raised them to his own face.

Out of options, Harry lunged, and Snape neatly side-stepped him, obviously having anticipated that Harry would try to stop him.

“What have you gotten into this time, Potter?” he growled.

“Nothing!” He tried to rip the glasses from Snape’s hand, but the man held them out of his reach. “They’re just…my glasses, is all. I don’t want them to get ruined!”

“So you leave them in the middle of the floor? Excellent plan.” Finally, he barked, “Potter! Stop this at once!”

Harry knew that he’d been beat. He backed up slowly, dread pitting in his stomach as an irate Snape placed the glasses on his nose and immediately stepped back, looking around him in alarm. His lips parted as he looked first one way, then another, and Harry took advantage of his distraction to put on his real glasses and retreat so that the bed was between them.

It was a good thing, too, because Snape’s eyes were narrowed slits when he removed the Wall Watcher. “You were watching,” he hissed. “You were listening to our _private_ conversation. Weren’t you?”

Would he be in worse trouble if he admitted to it or if he pleaded ignorance? Deciding that the truth would eventually be dragged out of him, he reluctantly nodded.

Snape began to stalk around the bed, and Harry backed up into a dresser.

“Noble words don’t mean much without action to back them up,” he said silkily.

“Wha-?”

“Your grand apology, Potter,” Snape hissed, inching closer. Harry tried to mold himself to the dresser. The man was _livid_. “To think that I believed your remorse, that you truly regretted invading my privacy last year, when all along you’ve been spying on me, using this… _contraption_ ,” he yelled and threw it to the other side of the room, “to invade my privacy _over and over again_!”

“No!” Harry protested. “I haven’t been-”

“You expect me to believe anything that is coming out of your mouth right now?” Snape snarled, his face twisting in rage.

“I swear, professor!” he tried again. “I-I listened to you and Dumbledore once, right after we got to Grimmauld Place. I didn’t - we weren’t, back then - I mean, I wanted to _know_ , and it was about me, and…but that’s it, the only time, I promise! Until tonight. I just wanted to know who was out there before I interrupted, and then you mentioned me, and Ron, and I needed to know-”

“Yes, you always _need to know_ ,” Snape sneered. “And if it tramples somebody else’s privacy, then so be it.”

“I didn’t think-”

“And therein lies the problem. _You don’t think,_ ” Snape’s voice was low, more dangerous than he’d heard from the man in weeks, “about your actions or their consequences, or about anybody but yourself!”

The words cut to the core, and Harry swallowed against a rush of tears. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he said plaintively.

Snape swept out his arm and Harry flinched violently, banging his back into the dresser and flinging his arms up to protect himself. He realized a moment too late that Snape had been gesturing for him to stop talking. He lowered his arms, but the damage was done. Snape had quickly backed up, a mix of emotions on his face. Regret was there, but in the end, disgust won out.

“I’m done,” he spat as he turned towards the door. “Practice Occlumency on your own. If you have questions, ask the headmaster.”

“Professor…” Harry tried one more time, but Snape was already slamming the door closed.

He sank to the ground in the sudden silence and hugged his knees to his chest. He felt cold, although he didn’t know if the chill was coming from inside or outside his body. He’d messed everything up. He hadn’t even stopped to think about how violated Snape would feel at being spied on, about how fragile their tentative trust was and how easily broken. _Of course_ the man would see it as a betrayal. And he was right. If Harry had stopped to consider Snape’s feelings for even one second, he’d have considered how much Snape valued his privacy. He’d have known that it was the wrong thing to do.

He’d lost any hope of further Occlumency lessons. Without even realizing it, he’d imagined a world in which some form of their lessons lasted through their return to Hogwarts. At the very least, Harry had imagined that Snape might allow him to seek him out in his office to ask the occasional question. In his most hopeful moments, he’d wondered if Snape might allow him into his NEWT Potions class. All that was gone too.

Including Lily. He’d never be able to ask about his mum now.

But out of all that, what made him feel most adrift was that he - in his own thoughtless act - was to blame. This time, it wasn’t Snape’s stubbornness or blind hatred causing him to wall himself off. Harry had managed to lose the man’s trust all on his own through his disregard for Snape’s boundaries.

Sniffling, he scrambled to his feet and found the Wall Watchers on the other side of the room. It wasn’t even scratched from Snape’s throw, but Harry could barely stand to look at it. He never wanted to use it again, never wanted to so much as be tempted. He grasped it in both hands and snapped it down the middle, then crushed the lenses with the heel of a boot from his trunk.

Finished, he tossed the fragments into a corner of the room.

And then he climbed into bed and took the easy way out of dealing with all of his guilt, worry, fear, and panic. He gulped down half the bottle of purple potion and sank into the welcome arms of dreamless sleep.


	37. Snake in the Grass

Snape was gone when Harry woke up late the following morning.

The professor had gone back to Grimmauld Place, Mrs. Weasley informed him, “to see to Order business.” But Harry knew he’d really left to get away from _him_. Nobody was treating Harry any differently, not even Kneader, so he doubted Snape had said anything about their fallout…but the man had clearly meant it when he’d said that he was done.

Harry miserably played his words over again in his head. Had he meant that he was done with _Occlumency_? Or done with _Harry_?

Did it really matter? Done was done. He’d lost Snape’s trust, and rightly so. Was there even anything he could do or say to get it back? While he genuinely regretted having violated Snape’s privacy like that, he also grieved the loss of any chance to get permission to use the Potions lab next year. And whenever his mind wondered to the thought that he’d lost any and all chance to find out about his mum, he felt like going back to bed with the help of Dreamless Sleep.

He miserably stabbed a bite of scrambled eggs with his fork and brought it to his lips, chewing without tasting. He’d slept late due to the potion’s effects, so that everybody else had finished breakfast before he’d started. Only Ginny sat at the kitchen table with him, books and homework spread out before her.

He was glad that Hermione was chatting up Kneader in the living room, because she was too perceptive about Harry’s moods. She’d know something was wrong, and she’d try to get it out of him, and he _really_ didn’t want to talk about it. Ginny was observant too, but she didn’t know him quite like Hermione did. And even if she did notice Harry’s depression, she wasn’t likely to press him for answers. She would give him space to work through it on his own. So yeah, Hermione might be one of his best friends, but sometimes spending time with the sister of his other best friend was a welcome relief.

He leaned back in his chair to look into the living room, but he couldn’t see from his vantage point. Remus had been on the sofa when he’d emerged from his room, but the man was still groggy from finally being cleared from his quarantine, or whatever that was. Harry still thought he had seemed fine all along, if tired, but Snape had insisted. Thankfully, Kneader decided that he’d spent enough time under the wards to break any hold a wizard’s curse might have over him.

It figured that when Harry finally got Remus back alive and awake and in one piece, it was Snape who he really wanted to talk to.

But then there was Ron, who also needed worrying about…

Harry desperately wanted to ask if they were going to be moved again and if they were going to be split up into different safe houses. He also wanted to know if Kneader had any more ideas about that Dual Curse theory, but that would involve admitting to more people that he’d spied on the men the night before. He didn’t think he could handle more censure and disappointed looks.

In the end, he excused himself from the table to spend time with the only person in the house who wouldn’t judge him or make him talk about what was bothering him - Ron.

Mrs. Weasley was standing over Ron’s bed saying a spell when he entered the makeshift hospital room. Harry recognized it as the nourishment spell they’d been using to keep him healthy. There were also cleaning spells and diagnostic spells and hydrating spells… He’d stopped by to visit Ron enough over the past week to be passably familiar with them all.

“Oh! Harry dear!” Mrs. Weasley put a hand over her heart. “You startled me.” Her face softened and she waved him in. “I’m nearly done here, and I’ll give you some time alone with him.”

Harry nodded, taking a seat on one of the beds as he watched her run through a couple more spells. She was still broken-hearted over her son, but she had a determination about her as well. She was strong, Harry knew, and it would break her heart if they couldn’t ever cure Ron, but she would survive. As long as she had other children who needed her, she’d stay strong for them.

Would Harry be as strong if he lost Ron?

He’d already lost Sirius, and he was still here. That was different though, he supposed. Sirius wasn’t his dad. He hadn’t even known the man all that long before he died, to be honest, and much of their time together consisted of each of them wanting to see James in the other. When he’d lost Sirius, he’d lost someone he loved, but as far as family went…he’d lost the _idea_ of family more than actual family. With Sirius, with how damaged he was after Azkaban, he couldn’t be the parent or mentor that Harry had wanted or needed. He’d been more like an incorrigible big brother. And losing a big brother had _hurt_. But how could he compare it to losing a parent or a child? He didn’t know either loss. He only knew the lack of parents, not what it felt like to lose them.

Maybe Harry would be stronger if he could remember his loss. Or maybe, on the flip side, it would have made him weaker. He supposed he’d never know.

“All done here, dear,” Mrs. Weasley murmured and gave him a brief hug on the way out. “Have a nice visit.”

Harry perched on a small chair next to Ron’s bed and watched the steady rise and fall of his friend’s chest. It was barely noticeable, but it was there.

“Can you hear me?”

No answer, of course.

“I’ve got to tell you something, and if you can hear me, it might be enough to shock you awake.” He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “That or you’ll think I’m insane and never want to wake up again.”

Harry bowed his head in the silent room, thinking where to begin. “Snape’s been teaching me Occlumency. And shock of shocks, he’s a pretty decent teacher when he wants to be. I know. I wouldn’t have believed it either.” He paused. “That’s not the main thing I wanted to tell you though. The thing is…I’ve been enjoying the lessons.”

He gave Ron the opportunity to blink or twitch or wake up and yell at him, but he was as still as ever.

“Snape’s been different. I mean, he’s still Snape, but…I think I understand him better now. And he’s been…maybe not _nice_ exactly, but…better to me. Helping me, listening and making sure I’m safe, that sort of thing. It’s been good, having a grown-up around who cares enough to do all that. I’ve never really had that before, not outside of school, and school doesn’t count. Oh, and your parents are great, don’t get me wrong. It’s just…not the same, when it’s your friend’s parents.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “I know. Talking about Snape and caring parents in the same sentence? I _am_ insane.”

On impulse, he reached out and lifted Ron’s hand, dropping it back onto the bed. It fell onto the sheets with a plop and was still.

“Still not faking, huh?” He slouched back into the chair and sighed. “I messed it all up. Snape couldn’t give a hoot if I lived or died now, I’m sure of it.” He blinked fast until the urge to cry passed. “I thought I was the good guy, you know? I mean, I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. A lot of mistakes. But _Snape_ was the unreasonable one, the git out to get me for no good reason. You have no idea how good it felt to see him starting to _get_ it - that there was no good reason to hate me. And then I had to go and prove him right after all.” He resisted the urge to kick the hospital bed. If Ron had any awareness, he probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

“D’you think there’s anything I can do?” Harry absently flattened his fringe with one hand. “Yeah, probably not. He wouldn’t believe another apology. He’s an ‘actions speak louder than words’ sort of person.” He groaned and cradled his head in his hands. “Think your mum would think Voldemort was attacking if I screamed right now? One scream would feel really good.”

He resisted the urge to scream and sat in silence for a while. He noted absently that there was no ticking clock in here, like there was in Ron’s room back at Grimmauld Place. He would have thought he’d prefer the silence, but he missed the noise. Being annoyed by a stupid ticking clock might have distracted him from his thoughts. Instead, he’d have to try to distract himself.

“I hope you’re better in time for Quidditch tryouts. We’ve got some spots to fill. It’d be good to get some fresh talent, and you’ll want to be there for that.” He fished for more to say about Quidditch but came up empty. “Think we’ll have a new Defense teacher? Oh, who am I kidding? Of course we’ll have a new Defense teacher. Wonder if this one will try to hand me over to Voldemort on the first day of term or wait at least until Christmas break. That would be nice, give me some time to alienate a few more Occlumency tutors first.”

If he pulled out all his hair right now, would Snape hear about it? Would he feel pity and give him another chance? Or would he stay away and ignore him anyway?

Ignore, definitely.

“I heard something last night…something I probably shouldn’t tell you.” He swallowed, unsure how to continue, even knowing Ron most likely couldn’t hear anything right now. “Kneader and Snape…they think you might have been hit with two curses. Well, not two, exactly. They called it a Dual Curse. Sounds like two curses linked together and cast as one. I’m not sure how it works exactly, but maybe now that they have an idea, they can start working on finding a counter-curse?” He didn’t want to say out loud what Kneader had said - that they couldn’t do anything without first finding the Death Eater who had cast the curse.

“They also think one of the curses might be some sort of tracking or locating spell. That that’s how they got so close to us in Grimmauld Place. They’re probably going to move us soon, to separate places. If they do, I don’t know when I’ll see you next. I’ll be thinking of you though. Even if I can’t visit, I want you to know it’s not because I don’t want to. It’ll be because I can’t.”

He stood and touched Ron’s hand briefly with his fingers. “Hang in there, okay? We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He took in a deep breath and made his way to the door. Maybe it was time to talk to somebody who could talk back.

It took a while of walking through the rock and grass to find his new friend, especially since he wasn’t certain that he was speaking in Parseltongue unless he was looking at the snake. He found him not too far from the tree that formed the Apparition boundary, but thankfully on the safe side.

As soon as he had the snake’s attention, he sat in the grass with his legs spread out in front of him. It wasn’t the most comfortable place - a rock was digging into his leg - but it would do.

“Sssnake-human is upssset,” the snake said.

Harry heaved a sigh. Great. He was so bad at hiding his emotions that even a _snake_ could read him like a book. Snape would have a field day with that information. If Snape even cared at all anymore. And then Harry had a worrisome thought. What if instead of hating him like before, Snape just ignored him altogether, all the time? For forever? As much as Harry would have given anything for Snape to take no notice of him in previous years, that sounded like the worst punishment to him now. If Snape hated him, some part of him still cared enough to react, right? If he shut Harry out, pretended as if he didn’t even exist, then he really, truly was done with Harry.

He swallowed a lump of emotion. “I am,” he admitted to the snake. “I made a mistake. And now my teacher - the one you met the other day - is angry with me.”

The snake slithered closer. “Do you want me to bite him?”

Harry laughed despite himself. “Is that your answer to everything?”

“It isss effective,” he said simply.

“No,” Harry sobered up. “If you see him, please don’t bite him. Not ever.”

“If you wissssh,” the snake bobbed his head once.

“I do.” Harry ran his fingers through his hair, probably making it more messy than usual in the process. “Do you have a name?” he asked, ready to talk about anything other than Snape.

The snake cocked his head at Harry. “Name?”

“Yes. Something you call yourself. Something that other people - well, snakes, I guess - call you. My name is Harry. So, instead of calling me snake-human, you can call me Harry.”

“Harry…” the snake said slowly, as if puzzling through the concept of names, and Harry wished he knew what his name sounded like in Parseltongue. It simply sounded like ‘Harry’ to him. “I have no name.”

“Oh.” Harry bit his lip. “Is there something I can call you? It feels weird to just call you ‘snake.’”

“That issss what I am.”

“I know. I just-” Harry scratched his chin, thinking about how to explain it. “Can I give you a name? Maybe…” The words that ran through his mind were associated with the wrong sort of snake - Nagini, the Basilisk, Slytherin - and he fished for something innocuous. “Basil? Griffin? Sam?”

“Thessse are namessss?”

Harry nodded. He snapped his fingers. “How about Hunter? Since hunting is what you like to do.”

The snake bobbed his head. “You may call me Hunter. If you wissssh.”

“Hunter it is!” He grinned. It wasn’t the most creative name, but it was descriptive and would do for his purposes. He couldn’t spend all day dreaming up the perfect name, after all. “You have a name now.”

The snake started to coil himself up, settling in for a chat. Harry was certain that he didn’t really care one way or another about having a name, but it was nice of him to humor his new human friend.

“So, Hunter, do you see many humans around here? Or only Kneader? Oh, he’s the man in the house that you like to stay away from.”

“Humansss come sssometimesss. Not often. I like it when they ssstay away. More hunting.”

“Hmm. Yeah, I can see that.” Harry leaned back on his hands, getting comfortable too.

“Most only come in the light. Not like dog-human. He disssturbed me in the dark.”

Harry frowned. “Dog-human?”

“Yesssss. He ssscared away the miccce lassst night.”

“Remus?” That’s the only person he could possibly mean. “He came out here last night? I wonder if he would if he knew there were snakes about.”

“I did not ssshow myssself to him,” Hunter informed him.

“Yeah. Um. Well. If you see him again, do me a favor and don’t bite him either, okay?”

“I mussst bite if he attacksss, Harry.” The snake stumbled over the name, obviously not used to the idea of names but trying to do as Harry asked.

“Um, well, just don’t go seeking him out, okay? Don’t show yourself to him, and he won’t have any reason to hurt you.”

“I will try,” Hunter agreed, bobbing his head slightly.

“Wait, why do you think Remus would attack you but that my teacher won’t?” Harry wondered. The snake hadn’t added any caveat with Snape.

“Teacher sssaw me before and did not attack,” Hunter said straightforwardly, and Harry supposed he couldn’t fault that reasoning. He added, “Dog-human sssmellss of evil.”

Harry started at that description but stopped himself from explaining about werewolves to the snake. He might not understand what it meant, and it might frighten him more into striking out at Remus when he didn’t need to. He settled on, “His name is Remus, and he’s my friend. He might smell funny to you, but he won’t hurt you unless he thinks you’re going to hurt him, I promise.”

He’d never thought a snake could show skepticism like a human could, but he could tell that Hunter didn’t quite believe him by the way he shifted. Ah, well. Chances weren’t huge that they would be here long enough for the snake to have a run-in with any of his friends anyway.

“Why issss Teacher angry with you?” asked the snake. “Did you sssteal his miccce?”

Harry grinned. He was glad he’d come here. His little friend was already cheering him up. “No. We don’t eat mice, not like you do. I…” he faltered, trying to figure out how to explain it in a way that the snake would understand. “I broke a promise.” That wasn’t precisely it, but it was close enough. His earlier apology to Snape could have functioned as a tacit promise to respect his privacy from that point on. Harry just hadn’t considered how Snape would feel about him using the Wall Watchers. He’d been so intent on finding answers, he hadn’t stopped to think about whether he should.

He pulled a few blades of grass and let them sift through his fingers. “He trusted me not to do something, and I did it anyway, and now he doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“Thisss trussst isss important to you?”

“Yes.” It was true, he realized. Snape’s trust did mean a lot to him. More than he’d thought it did before he broke that trust. It was depressing to keep thinking about it, so he changed the subject. “Do you have any family?”

“Yessss.”

When the snake didn’t elaborate, he prodded, “Where are they?”

“I do not know,” Hunter answered. “My brothersss and sssissstersss left the nessst when I did. Do sssnake-humansss not do the sssame?”

Harry almost replied that he didn’t know what it was like to have a nest in the first place. A nest sounded like a warm, lovely place, which Privet Drive had never been. But he thought that might be a difficult concept to explain to a snake, so he settled on, “I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I don’t have a mother or father either.”

“How ssstrange,” said the snake. It uncoiled slightly and settled in on a thicker patch of grass, closer to Harry. “Do humansss not have family?”

Harry dug out a clump of dirt along with a handful of grass and watched the dirt fall through his fingers back to the ground. Kind of like his dashed hopes, he thought and nearly rolled his eyes at his own over-dramatic thoughts. He focused back on the conversation. “Most do. I did have a mother and father once, a long time ago. They died.” He paused, then added, “I don’t remember them, but I miss them.”

“I did not know my sssnake parentsss long either. I do not misssss them.”

Harry almost pointed out that…well, he was a snake and that was different, wasn’t it? But he wasn’t sure if that would come across as rude. On the other hand, maybe snakes didn’t get offended the same way humans did? He settled for explaining, “It’s different for humans. We don’t leave the nest right away. We take longer to grow up, and we stay with our mothers and fathers for many years.”

“How ssstrange,” the snake said again.

“Yeah. It is,” Harry agreed, having never known what that was like himself. “But other human kids have parents, so I always wished I did too.”

“You are still in the nest,” Hunter said as if puzzling out a mystery that didn’t make sense, “but you have no nest-mates?”

Harry shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“You are not in Teacher’s nest?”

Harry gave the snake a wry grin. “No. Definitely not.” He didn’t know how to elaborate on that, so he didn’t. Instead, he spoke what was on his mind. “My teacher knew my mother. I hoped he would tell me about her. But then I made him angry, and now he won’t talk to me. That’s also why I’m sad.”

And that _hurt_. Every time he got close to knowing something about his parents, he felt such a sense of hope…but these days, that hope was always tempered with dread. Not only did he rarely find the information he sought, he knew that nothing could bring them back or make up for the lack of them in his life. He wanted to feel closer to them, but in the end…he was still alone, wasn’t he?

No, he corrected himself. He wasn’t alone. He didn’t have a loving family, but he did have his friends. He had Ron and Hermione, his other friends in Gryffindor, Luna, Remus, and the Weasleys. Even if he hadn’t known parental love, he did have love in his life. And anyway, he knew that his parents had loved him. Even if he didn’t feel that love, knowing it meant something. There was a world of difference between thinking your parents were deadbeat drunks who died in a car crash and knowing that they were heroes who sacrificed themselves to save your life.

He couldn’t remember that love, but knowing it had been there meant something to him.

He sighed. If only he could have _experienced_ it.

Hunter slithered closer and lay his head on Harry’s knee. “I have no nessst to offer you,” he said, “but I can help you find a good ssspot for one.”

“Thank you,” Harry gave his friend a genuine smile and reached out a hand to graze along his smooth scales. They sat in silence for a while, Harry stroking Hunter’s back while the snake curled up closer to Harry’s warmth.

He didn’t know how long they had been there when his snake friend hissed and reared back at something behind Harry.

Harry whipped his head around but was relieved to see Remus walking towards them from the house. Well, maybe not completely relieved… He looked back at the snake, who looked ready to strike. “He’s a friend, remember? He won’t hurt you.”

Hunter looked as skeptical as a snake could look. “Will the dog-human hurt _you_?”

Harry was touched. He smiled. “No. A friend means someone who won’t hurt you. You know how I said that Teacher was my mother’s friend? Well, Remus was my father’s friend. He would never hurt me.”

“You do not ssssmell of evil.”

“Um. Thanks?”

“You ssshould ssstay away from evil.”

Harry felt like he was trying to explain something to a little child who just couldn’t understand. “Remus isn’t evil, no matter what he smells like. Look, why don’t you go on home and maybe later I’ll come look for you and we can talk again. Okay?”

He could tell Hunter was reluctant to leave, but he finally did, slowly uncoiling himself and slithering off into the grass. He looked back at Harry before disappearing completely.

“Were you just talking to a snake?” Remus’s voice came from a short distance away. He still looked tired and was breathing heavily, as if the short walk had exhausted him.

“Yeah.” Harry stood and wiped the dirt and grass from his trousers. “He’s a friend.”

Remus stopped next to him and stared at the grass where the snake had been. “A…friend.”

“Yeah,” Harry repeated, not sure why he was having so much trouble explaining that word today. “He’s nice. He seems to like talking to me. I think he’s a little bit lonely.”

Remus gave a noncommittal sound.

“You don’t have a problem with Parseltongue, do you?” Harry shot him a sideways glance. Of all people, he didn’t think Remus would have an issue with Harry’s rare power. His former professor knew what it was like to be judged for something he couldn’t help, after all.

“Not at all.” Remus gave him a small smile and looked around them at the grass. “I would prefer not to be near a snake, however. Personal preference, you understand.”

“You’re not alone in that,” muttered Harry, thinking of Snape’s reaction. He smirked at the thought that the men had something in common.

“I have been wanting to talk to you, Harry. Perhaps now?” Remus gestured to the tree.

Harry hesitated, as much because he was worried Remus might know what he’d done as he was about the wards and boundaries. “Um. Are we supposed to…”

The man smiled as he walked the short distance and then slowly leaned against the large trunk in the shade of its leaves. “The boundary is just beyond where we are. We are perfectly safe as long as we stay on this side of the tree.”

Harry nodded and joined him in the shade of the tree’s branches. He didn’t sit, preferring to kick at a loose rock with the toe of his shoe.

Remus leaned his head back against the tree. “You’ve had a trying summer, haven’t you?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. _Obviously,_ he thought, but said instead, “Yeah. Well…a lot’s happened, that’s for sure. But…um, I can’t think that it’s been as trying as yours. How are you feeling?”

Remus shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “You-Know-Who was not exactly hospitable, but I will be fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry looked his dad’s friend over. At least his injuries were all healed. Other than being tired and sluggish, he didn’t have so much as a bruise or a scratch on him. But Harry knew how deep wounds could run. Emotional wounds took far longer to heal.

Remus sat in silence for several seconds before observing, “You’ve become close with Professor Snape.”

Harry had no idea how to answer that question, so he didn’t. He kicked at another rock.

“He left in a hurry this morning,” Remus went on. “I don’t suppose you know when he will return?”

Harry shook his head without meeting Remus’s eyes. How was he supposed to admit that he was the one who drove Snape away? Or that he knew the professor would stay away as long as he could? On the other hand, Snape did feel responsible for Harry, if only because of Dumbledore’s charge to look after him, so maybe he would return just long enough to make sure that Harry was sent off somewhere safe…somewhere they wouldn’t have to see each other. Or would he even bother, knowing that Remus was awake now and could take over Harry-sitting duties?

“You seem worried.” Remus was watching him carefully.

Harry shrugged. He was already confused about how he felt. He didn’t think that talking it over would help, even with someone as well-meaning as his dad’s friend.

“He didn’t say anything about when he would return?” Remus pressed.

“Why?” asked Harry, looking up. “Is something the matter?”

“Of course not,” Remus said so smoothly that Harry narrowed his eyes. He was pretty sure that Remus and maybe the Order were keeping things from him again. He never liked that…but on the other hand, he felt so bad about spying on Snape and Kneader last night that his desire to mercilessly question Remus quickly dissipated.

“Professor Snape didn’t tell me where he was going or when he’d be back,” he said evenly, trying not to betray how much that bothered him. “Maybe Mr. Kneader or Mrs. Weasley knows?”

Remus nodded. “I’m surprised that the headmaster hasn’t been out to see you. Has he been in touch?”

Harry shook his head and kicked at a particularly stubborn rock. Dumbledore’s absence hadn’t really bothered him. Not like Snape’s did, and Snape hadn’t even been gone half a day yet.

“You’ve had no word from him at all? He hasn’t said when he will return?”

Harry gave him a skeptical glance. “No. Shouldn’t you be asking the Order or something? You know they don’t share much with me.” His usual annoyance at that fact gave way to shame when his mind immediately went to the Wall Watchers and how much he could have gleaned from Order meetings if he hadn’t destroyed them. He ducked his head. He didn’t regret destroying them. If he hadn’t, he eventually would have given into temptation to eavesdrop again. And he didn’t want to be that person that Snape had been disappointed in last night, he really didn’t.

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Remus said with a yawn, rising to his feet. “I’ll ask them later. Do you have your wand?” he asked, almost in the same breath.

“Course.” Harry patted his sleeve. “Why?”

“It may be best for you to leave it with me,” said Remus with a grin that looked very un-Remus-like. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Harry’s wand flew from his sleeve into Remus’s hand. “Remus! Wha-”

“ _Petrificus Totalus! Mobilicorpus!_ ” The spells in quick succession knocked him over, stiff as a board, and levitated his body several inches from the ground. His mind was short circuiting, trying to figure out what Remus was trying to prove. It wasn’t like him to attack Harry, not unless he was teaching Harry and had warned him first. No, whatever Remus was doing, it wasn’t good.

But Remus wouldn’t ever do anything bad to him, so…a chill ran through his immobilized body. Had Snape been right? That Remus was cursed? Or worse, wrong, and Remus had been Polyjuiced?

Before he could think through that, his former professor’s face entered his vision. The man stood above him. “I am sorry, Harry. I have my orders.”

_Orders?_

No. Not Remus. This wasn’t Remus. Polyjuice, it had to be! He tried to move, to escape the spells, but he couldn’t. The most he could do was to widen his eyes in panic as he felt his body drift past the tree. He felt something press into his hand. His fingers shifted…his thumb brushed metal.

_The ring. Snape._ He focused as hard as he could through his shock, managed to press his thumb to the ring. Remus - NOT Remus - mumbled something, and just after his ring heated up, the world dissolved around him in a swirl of nausea and light.

He landed painfully on a cold, hard surface. Still unable to move, he tried to look around him but couldn’t. Ice filled his veins as he heard a high-pitched laugh.

A pair of red slitted eyes in a pale face swam above his eyes below a dimly lit stone ceiling.

“Harry Potter. How kind of you to drop in.”


	38. Welcome to Hotel Voldemort

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

If he had to be Voldemort’s captive - a highly debatable point, as Snape would say - it was supposed to be on his own terms. Other Harry had insisted. This _definitely_ was not his own terms. Right..?

And so it was, that even though Harry was wandless, defenseless, and surrounded by Voldemort and his followers in the middle of who-knows-where, his first panicked thought was that his vision of the future was going to come true. The _bad_ one. All of his friends were going to die on the battlefields of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.

His second thought was a word that he would never say aloud in Mrs. Weasley’s presence. The same word was also his third, fourth, and fifth thought.

“Harry Potter. How kind of you to drop in.” Other voices then joined Voldemort in laughing at Harry’s expense.

It was cold. He was still unable to move or to see anything except Voldemort’s face below a dimly lit stone ceiling. His imagination ran wild with worst case scenarios. Was he already in the dank, dark dungeon where he would meet his demise? Had Voldemort already called all his Death Eaters to his side to watch Harry slowly die as they drained the blood from his body? Were they going to torture him first or would he simply sink into oblivion?

Maybe…maybe it wouldn’t hurt if they were to simply give him the potion right now and make him sleep…

But what of his friends? The Remus impostor had sent him by Portkey but had stayed behind. That meant that Harry’s friends were in danger, and he couldn’t warn them! And where was the real Remus? Did Voldemort have him? Was he alive…or was he dead?

No. Snape had said that _was_ the real Remus. How could he have fooled _Snape_? Well, he’d fooled them either way, hadn’t he? Snape had thought he was really Remus. Kneader had thought he was safe, that the wards had done their work against any spells or curses. How could they both be so _wrong_?

One good thing about being under this spell was that his body was doing its breathing for him. It prevented him from crying or devolving into another panic attack. Although it was this lying here, unable to do anything, that was the main cause of his rising panic, so there was that.

As if reading his mind, Voldemort ended Harry’s bodily imprisonment with a wave of his wand.

Harry immediately jumped up, crouching in a defensive posture. He didn’t know what he could possibly do against what he could now see were about a dozen Death Eaters gathered in a semicircle around him, especially without his wand, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Voldemort win without a fight. At the very least, he’d do his best to get in one solid punch to Voldemort’s ridiculously pale jaw. Maybe it would snap. If he had to die, that wouldn’t be a bad image to die to.

He wanted to snap that jaw even more when he saw how widely Voldemort was grinning at him. He could see now that they were in a large room almost entirely made of stone. From the crumbling state of some of the stones, he guessed it to be an old, abandoned manor house.

“I have been waiting for you, Harry. You have no idea for how long. Alas, you accepted none of my invitations, so I had to take matters into my own hands. I am certain you understand.”

“Where’s Remus?” He asked, skipping the false pleasantries.

Voldemort’s smile grew. “Your little werewolf friend? Why, he is right where you left him, in whatever _safe_ location you were whisked away from.”

“The _real_ Remus! What did you do with him? Where is he?” Harry demanded.

“Oh, but Harry, that _was_ the real Remus Lupin,” Voldemort said silkily. He began to move, gliding in a circle around Harry, who pivoted in place along with him, unwilling to turn his back. “How does betrayal feel? After all, you took one of my own away from me,” he hissed in a deadly tone even though his face was still smiling, albeit in a pinched, irritated sort of way. “It was only right that I take one of yours in payment for the loss of my most valuable spy.”

Harry shook his head. “Remus isn’t a traitor. He wouldn’t betray me. And he wasn’t acting like himself. You took him, replaced him with an impostor, I know it!”

“Oh, Harry.” Voldemort came closer but didn’t touch him. “How much faith you have in those you _love_.” He said that word with disgust, as though loving anyone was the most foolish thing someone could do.

“I’m right,” Harry said with conviction. He stared at Voldemort steadily, pulling up every bit of bravado he had, determined not to cower or show his very real fear. “You know I’m right.”

Voldemort’s jaw clenched for only a second, but it was enough for Harry to know that Voldemort was annoyed because Harry _was_ right. Not that he’d doubted it.

“Where is Remus?” he asked again, even more certainty behind the words.

Voldemort grasped Harry’s face before he could flinch away, holding him by the jaw with the strong, bony fingers of one hand. Harry’s scar had been burning since he arrived, but it gave a sharp flare of pain at the contact. He tried not to show any of the pain on his face and spared a wistful thought for the strong headache draft that was still in his trunk at Kneader’s place.

“Your werewolf friend was a particularly difficult case. It took several days to break his will enough for the Imperius Curse to work properly.”

Harry could feel his face drain of color. Remus was under the Imperius Curse? The fact that Snape had been right all along to suspect him of being cursed threw his world off balance.

“Yes,” Voldemort happily murmured. “I cast it myself. I had to ensure that it was strong enough to last, to fully immerse him within its effects. I _am_ very good at casting it, you know.”

A chill ran through Harry at those words. How could Voldemort have made Remus do his bidding, be under his control so completely, and after so many days? And if he could do that to Remus, who else might be compromised? And the _power_ needed control Remus even after Kneader’s wards should have made it impossible. And in a rush, he remembered Snape’s words from weeks ago, when they’d been stuck at the Dursleys:

_Something happened as a result of that potion that even the Dark Lord did not expect. He surpassed his previous strength of abilities. He became capable of far more than he was even during the previous war…_

They hadn’t accounted for Voldemort’s increased power that would allow him to control Remus despite Snape’s caution and Kneader’s wards and counter-curses. They hadn’t accounted for him sending Harry a vision about the Burrow and using Ron to track him. After his Ron plan failed to get Voldemort an exact location, they hadn’t planned on the dark wizard capturing Remus to send back to the Order as a spy. And then sending Harry another vision so that he would leave Grimmauld for a place easier to be Portkeyed away from… Harry would bet that Voldemort had tried to send him a regular vision before sending him that message about Remus, but couldn’t because he’d been Occluding, so then forced his way in anyway. Remus _had_ meant to lure him to a less defensible safe house after all, so that he could be captured all the more quickly and easily.

All those weeks, Harry had been doing homework, practicing Occlumency, trying to pry personal details out of Snape, and playing Exploding Snap with his friends, while Voldemort had been putting a carefully crafted plan into action. And he’d won his prize. He’d won Harry.

If not for Snape, he’d have been captured days ago. If only they’d accounted for Voldemort’s increased powers, Remus might still be sedated and Harry might still be safe…

“Yes, you are properly afraid, I can see.” Voldemort smiled and let go of Harry’s jaw, shoving him in the process so that he stumbled. Several of the assembled Death Eaters laughed. “We have much to do, Harry Potter. And you are our guest of honor. So…shall we get started?”

Before he had time to worry about what _getting started_ entailed, he was hit by a painful curse from behind. He gasped, whirling around to face whichever Death Eater had sent the curse.

“Do not harm him _too_ much,” Voldemort said as he took a seat on a chair on a slightly raised platform. “I have need of his body. His mind on the other hand…” he grinned wickedly, “do with what you will.”

* * *

Harry didn’t know how much time had passed since he had been dragged downstairs from the main room and thrown into this sorry excuse for a cell. He’d been barely conscious and had fallen asleep almost immediately, both body and mind exhausted, and the small stone room was just as dark when he awoke as it had been when he’d fallen asleep.

He sat up slowly, feeling every limb and muscle, checking for broken bones or wounds. But Voldemort had meant what he’d said, and the Death Eaters hadn’t done any damage to Harry’s body other than a few scratches and bruises. Even those had mostly been caused when he’d fallen to the ground under the strain of their curses. They’d relied mainly on pain curses, ones that caused pain and mental strain without inflicting bodily harm. No _Crucio_. He didn’t get his hopes up though; Voldemort was probably saving that curse for later. He rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. His scar hadn’t stopped prickling, but the worst pain had subsided after Voldemort let go of him.

He leaned back against the stone wall with a groan. He was exhausted, shaky, cold, hungry, thirsty, and scared. He had no idea why Voldemort wasn’t just putting him under and using him as a blood bag. He didn’t know if the dark wizard was merely having fun playing with his prey before going through with his plan, or if he had something even more sinister in store for Harry.

Or perhaps he really did want to drive Harry insane. What was that saying? Insanity loves company? Okay, so the saying didn’t quite go like that, but in Voldemort’s case, it was probably true.

If it truly was his plan to drive him insane, Harry thought, it may very well be accomplished by leaving him alone in this cold, dark room with nothing to do but think.

Had anyone noticed he was gone? Had Snape received his signal for help? He pressed his thumb to the ring, not for the first time, but it was still and cold. He knew he’d felt it warm up when he’d used it back at Kneader’s, but it didn’t warm up here. There had to be wards in place that prevented it from working. Did that mean Snape didn’t have a way to find him? And even if he did get the summons to go back to Kneader’s, Remus - mind-controlled Remus - would have made excuses for his absence, held them off as long as possible. But sooner or later they’d notice. He was the main reason they’d had to go to a safe house in the first place, after all. He couldn’t disappear for long without the others needing to know where he was. It could take hours though, maybe until evening…

But who was he kidding? It didn’t matter how long it took them to realize that he was gone. They had no way of finding or rescuing him.

His thoughts kept drifting back to Snape. Harry had failed. He was supposed to trust Snape, to work with him so that the spy would be back in place to get him away from Voldemort. There was no way that would happen now. Voldemort would never believe any story Snape concocted while Harry Potter was his prisoner in need of rescuing. Even Snape couldn’t find a way back into the fold now.

And if Snape wasn’t a spy, if he didn’t have access to Voldemort’s inner circle, how could he possibly help Harry?

Even more frightening to consider…would the man even want to anymore?

Harry felt real despair when he pondered that question, because he didn’t know the answer. Oh, Snape would look for him, would do anything he could to find him if it was within his power. Harry was sure of that. But he would do it for Dumbledore and for the war…

He wasn’t so sure the man would want to do it for _him_.

He knew he should only be concerned with escaping Voldemort’s clutches or warning his friends that they still had a spy among them, but try as he might, he also couldn’t erase the guilt he felt that he wouldn’t be able to make things right with Snape before he died.

It was little wonder that his restless sleep that night was plagued with nightmares.

* * *

Harry blinked his eyes open and tried to remember where he was, why he felt so cold, but before he could, a pair of rough hands grabbed him by the arms and hoisted him to his feet. He tried to walk of his own accord, but his legs weren’t cooperating, and so he half-walked and was half-dragged down a long hallway and into a large stone room.

He recognized this room from before. He felt sick as it all - the capture, the torture - came rushing back.

The arms let go of him and he fell to the ground. No! He wouldn’t be seen as weak if he could help it. It took effort, but he strained his arms to push himself upright, then slowly stood on shaking legs. He locked his knees, hoping against hope that he could keep himself upright. He was proud when he did.

Voldemort sat before him on his makeshift throne. Several Death Eaters - about half as had been there for Harry’s welcoming torture session - stood on either side of their lord.

A smile crossed Voldemort’s face as he watched Harry struggle, and he waited in silence while the men who had brought Harry from his cell fell in line beside their fellows.

“I trust you slept well,” he finally said in a falsely pleasant voice. “The accommodations were to your liking?”

Harry didn’t respond, not even to the laughter of the masked men around them. He wasn’t sure _what_ to do in this situation, but he wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

Voldemort studied him, then stood and stepped down from his platform. He circled Harry slowly, and Harry stood still. He hated having his back to Voldemort for any length of time, but it was all he could do to remain standing. He was feeling stronger now that he was fully awake, but any movement bore the risk of falling flat on his face.

“I thought that perhaps we could have a chat,” Voldemort said as if Harry were an honored guest invited here for tea and crumpets. Harry stayed silent, and Voldemort stopped in front of him. “You see, we share a…friend in common. As much as your presence thrills me to no end, I long to see him as well.” Harry shuddered at the dangerous undertones of his words. “Perhaps, with dear Severus here to share in my hospitality, I might be inclined to take it easier on you.”

Harry snorted. He almost couldn’t help it, Voldemort’s promises were so ridiculous. As if Harry would actually believe that Voldemort wouldn’t still harm Harry if Snape were here. Anyway, even if he _could_ lead Voldemort to Snape, Harry would never betray his professor like that.

Still, a twinge of fear ran through his body at the knowledge that Remus was still under Voldemort’s control, and Snape wouldn’t stay away from Kneader’s forever…

Voldemort’s face was pinched as he grasped Harry by the arm, bony fingers digging painfully into his flesh. “Where is Severus Snape?”

Harry clenched his lips together. He defiantly met Voldemort’s gaze. He realized too late that that was a mistake, for in the next second, he felt the wisp of something cold brush up against his mind. He quickly looked away, pulling against the dark wizard’s hold on his arm, but Voldemort grabbed him fiercely by the chin and forced his eyes to meet his own. He couldn’t even close his eyes, some sort of magic keeping them open so that he had no choice but to stare into that cold, evil gaze.

He immediately brought up his wall, just like he’d been taught, and tried to hide any thoughts of Snape behind thoughts of how vile and disgusting Voldemort was. From his bony hands to his slitted eyes to his foul breath, the pathetic, power-hungry excuse for a wizard would never win. He had no chance in this war, not up against Dumbledore and the Order and goodness and light and all that was right in this world. Evil like him never won. They died horrible, awful deaths after being brought low and-

Pain ripped through his scar, and his thoughts were violently scattered like pins from a bowling ball. He felt a rip in his mental wall. He wasn’t skilled enough to have fooled Voldemort for a moment. The wizard saw it, knew where he was hiding his thoughts, knew that he only needed to exert force and rip the memories that he needed from Harry’s mind.

 _No!_ Harry pushed back with as much power as he could muster. Villains never won. Heroes did. Heroes defeated villains, not the other way around. Not-

He screamed, and he couldn’t tell if he had screamed out loud or inside his mind. So much power, and it _hurt_. He felt another tear in his wall. Voldemort was gaining ground, ripping down his defenses, and soon he would know everything he’d ever wanted to know…

_Snape was in his room on Privet Drive, dressed in a ridiculous get-up, looking at him hesitantly, saying, “Gather your things, Potter.”_

_Dumbledore and Snape were sitting across the table from each other at Grimmauld Place. “What happened in the past does not have to define you, Severus. What you do today, right now…_ that _is what defines you.”_

_Snape was yelling, seething with anger. “Damn you, Potter! You were supposed to be arrogant!”_

“NO!” He roared, pushing back with all of his might, despite how much it hurt to do so. He felt Voldemort pull back but quickly regroup and regain his advantage. In between the attacks, Harry felt a twinge of despair. He wasn’t strong enough, not against attacks like this. It was too much, too much, too-

_Snape was stiffly handing him an old lumpy envelope, then ushering him out of his lab._

_Harry was opening his eyes, feeling safe in a pair of comforting arms. He wanted to stay there, to be held and protected. He felt a wave of gratitude toward Snape for offering him comfort. He felt…_

Voldemort faltered. He continued his attack an instant later, increasing in intensity, but the crack in Voldemort’s Legilimancy was enough for Harry to remember the one thing Voldemort couldn’t withstand about Harry’s mind: love.

_Snape was watching him talk to a snake, the grass surrounding them, the sea air-_

Harry forcefully brought up a different memory.

_Remus was patting his knee. “You have her intelligence, her kind-hearted compassion for others, her great capacity for forgiveness…” Harry blinked away tears, so grateful to Remus for caring about Harry. Not the Boy Who Lived, just Harry._

Voldemort faltered again. Harry pushed on.

_Hermione was helping him, reading to him. He smiled at her, thanked her for helping him. With friends like this on his side, how could he fail? He hugged her to him, grateful beyond words for her love and friendship._

_He was talking to Ron. Telling him he’d be okay. He felt concern and love well up in his heart for his friend._

He gasped as a desperate Voldemort dealt him a mental blow, crushing his thoughts so that they seemed to fall apart like fragments in his mind. For a moment, he simply existed, unable to think or to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He’d never felt so torn apart inside, save for when Voldemort had tried to possess him.

Voldemort pressed his advantage, breaking through the wall once and for all. Images of Snape flew through his mind too fast for him to sift through.

_Snape in his bedroom. Snape with a wand that wasn’t his. Snape sneering at him. Snape offering him a potion. Snape teaching him how to-_

_Nonononono!_ He barely managed to slam the door on the thought of what Snape had been teaching him, but Voldemort was prying it open again. Mere seconds and he would succeed….

On instinct, he let go of the mental wall he’d been trying to resurrect. It was in shambles. There was no point. It wouldn’t withhold more than one more focused attack. He refocused his energy within, to the deepest part of himself, where he knew the imagined element of air lay hidden and ready to do his bidding. Unused to such an attack, it gave a pathetic wisp of a breeze and lay still.

Voldemort was prying, prying, it hurt hurt _hurthurthurt_ …he was there, he pried it open - _Snape was teaching him-_

He charged at the breeze, forcing it to do his bidding. He felt it steadily whirling up in his mind and thrust every bit of power that he could at it, infusing it with the love he felt for Ron. His best friend, his confidante, his _brother_. He was unprepared for the sudden force as something powerful - more power than he’d known he had - ripped through him, tearing through his own mind and into Voldemort’s, and he heard a scream but this time, he thought the scream had come from Voldemort.

And all was still.

He was lying on the ground, pain in his elbow telling him that he had landed hard and awkwardly, even though he couldn’t remember falling. He looked up and around, too spent to defend himself but aware enough of his precarious situation to find out if he needed to do so.

The Death Eaters were shouting, two of them hovering over their lord, who was flat on his back a short distance away from Harry but was even now gingerly rising to his feet. Ooh he was livid. And afraid. Harry thought he might smile later, when he had more energy, at the glint of fear that he saw in Voldemort’s eyes. Right now it was simply enough to infuse Harry with a sense of relief. Voldemort had been winning the battle within their minds, but whatever Harry had done, he’d managed to sever the connection and make Voldemort afraid of Harry’s mind, too afraid to try again. At least for now.

He thought that later he might enjoy the feeling of making Voldemort fear him. It was quite the accomplishment. But for now…for now, he had to deal with the darkness that was coming for him, working its way from the edges of his vision. He reached out an arm, trying to wave it away, but it was no use.

The darkness came for him, and he knew no more.

* * *

Aunt Petunia was cooking. He sniffed the air. It wasn’t her finest, but was that…beef? Potatoes, maybe?

He rolled over, trying to get a little more sleep before Uncle Vernon started pounding on the door to force him out of bed. His forehead hit a solid, cold wall, and he startled awake. Blinking in the near-dark, he registered immediately that he was not in his room on Privet Drive.

He was alone. There were no sounds other than his own breathing, no smells other than his own sweat and the aroma of food. His stomach gave a pitiful grumble.

Food.

He slowly sat up, sore, but more exhausted than anything, and looked around until he saw the outline of something on the floor nearby. It was some kind of stew. Thanks to the sliver of light sneaking in through the cracks of the door - and the miracle that he still had his glasses - he could see well enough to tell.

He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, savoring every bite of the cold, bland dish. There wasn’t enough, but he was glad that they had decided to feed him at all. He was more careful with the glass of water that sat beside the bowl. He didn’t know how long he’d be here or how often they’d give him water, so he took a few swallows and decided to slowly sip the rest.

He wondered if Voldemort would try to Legilimize him again. If he did, he wouldn’t do so without caution and fear, so that was some small amount of comfort.

He wondered if Voldemort had found anything in Harry’s mind that would help him to find Snape. He hoped not. But the dark wizard had seen that they’d spent an awful lot of time together, also that Harry felt a certain amount of closeness to his professor. That could be dangerous information in Voldemort’s hands. He’d also seen them interacting outside Kneader’s house. Could he figure out where it was located from that one partial memory? But how hidden was it anyway, now that Remus was under the Imperius Curse and could relay information back to Voldemort? He rubbed his scar tiredly. He didn’t even know how the Imperius worked, not really. Remus hadn’t seemed that different, except for being so tired, and maybe a bit disconnected, so maybe it only had a limited control. Maybe the locations of the safe houses were warded similar to headquarters and he couldn’t divulge secrets even if Voldemort told him to. On the other hand, now that he knew what to look for, maybe Remus _had_ been acting out of character. From empty eyes to that awful smirk… It was scary to think what Voldemort could do to a victim’s mind with his increased powers.

It made sense that Voldemort would have done Imperius rather than Polyjuice though, he reflected. Even an Imperiused Remus could access headquarters and probably other Order secrets, whereas a Polyjuiced impostor could not. He blinked back a sudden rush of tears at the thought of Remus being under the control of an evil wizard. He didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserved that, but definitely not Remus.

He sighed miserably as he leaned against the wall and waited for his next audience with Voldemort.

He supposed he should be thankful that the dark wizard had found a use for him that meant he wanted him alive and relatively unharmed. When Snape had explained to him Voldemort’s plan to use him for his blood, he had felt disgust and fear at the prospect. Now it had morphed into a strange sort of comfort. Voldemort might torture him but wouldn’t take it too far, might let his Death Eaters at him but with conditions, might Legilimize him but wouldn’t do so again without fear.

Harry was afraid. Very, very afraid. But knowing that Voldemort’s own purposes for Harry required restraint gave him a small feeling of power in circumstances where nothing else was within his control.

He looked and felt around him for any small bit of comfort they’d left with him. A pillow, or a blanket, maybe? His bum and his back were both killing him from spending so much time on the hard floor. There was nothing. He slumped back in defeat. He had a jumper on over his shirt. He supposed he could take that off to use as a pillow, but - and he shivered as if to illustrate his point - it was cold in here.

He should start thinking of a plan of attack, he decided. He didn’t have a hope of escaping, not all on his own, not yet anyway. But he could think of ways to be prepared should an opportunity arise. At the very least, he could think of ways to be the most irritating prisoner Voldemort and his Death Eaters had ever encountered.

Voldemort hated that he didn’t cower before him. He hated Harry’s defiance, his bravery. So Harry would be extra defiant. He didn’t feel brave right now, but he could pretend to be brave. Bravado would have to do.

And thanks to Snape, he knew an excellent way to get under the skin of each and every Death Eater. Almost literally. By the time he was done, they’d rue the day they got that Dark Mark on their arms. Harry would get sick and tired of saying Voldemort’s name over and over…but it would be worth it.

He didn’t have his wand, he hadn’t studied wandless magic, and he had far more practice taking punches than giving them. He didn’t have a single worthwhile defense other than his mind. But he did have one other thing going for him: he was a teenager. So he was going to be the most irritating teenager that Voldemort had ever had the misfortune to capture.

And if he was lucky, they’d get distracted in their irritation and leave open some avenue of escape.

If only he felt more lucky…

* * *

Harry awoke with a start. He raised an arm to shield his eyes from a light. He tried to remember where he was, why he felt so cold. He blinked slowly, getting used to the brightness.

It took him several seconds to realize that he wasn’t alone and several more to register that his visitor was Lucius Malfoy.

The elder Malfoy was sitting on a stool in the corner of his cell, arms crossed as he leaned back, watching him with a bored expression. A lantern rested at his feet. Now that Harry was fully awake, the lone light didn’t seem quite so bright. It lit up Malfoy’s blank features just enough for Harry to be wary of what the Death Eater had in store for him.

He sat up, muscles aching, and leaned his back against the cold wall. He returned the older wizard’s stare in silence. He figured that if the man wanted something, it couldn’t be good, so he wasn’t going to hurry things along.

“The great Harry Potter,” the blonde-haired man said smoothly. “You thought you could outrun the Dark Lord, did you? And yet, here you are.”

Harry clenched his hands but didn’t respond. There was no need. It was obvious to both of them that he was Voldemort’s captive.

“Nobody outruns the Dark Lord,” Malfoy continued, though he didn’t sound as if he were gloating, merely as if he were stating a fact. “Many have tried. None succeed.”

“Snape has,” Harry said defiantly, giving up on being silent. “He escaped your pathetic cult, and I don’t see him back here.”

“He has been on the run for mere weeks, boy,” Malfoy said with a shake of his head, as if at Harry’s youthful folly. “He knows very well what the Dark Lord has in store for him, and he knows that he cannot run forever.”

Harry shivered. “We have Dumbledore on our side,” he said to distract himself from thoughts of Snape’s demise at the hand of Voldemort. “Your master is too pathetic to be able to defeat a great wizard like Albus Dumbledore. He fears him, and you know it.”

Malfoy cocked his head to the side, studying him. To Harry it looked like a vulture preparing to strike. “And your precious Dumbledore…how well did he protect _you_?”

Harry fought the urge to look away. He lifted his chin instead. “He’ll find me, and when he does, Voldemort and the rest of your buddies will be the ones running for cover.” It was all bluster, of course, but he was gratified to notice the man’s flinch when he spoke Voldemort’s name.

He sat up straighter, feeling a tiny bit more in control of the situation.

“And your _side_ , your…Order of the Phoenix,” Malfoy said silkily, “How accepting are they of a former Death Eater in their midst? How long before they realize he has served his purpose and is ready to be tried for his so-called crimes? He wasn’t always a spy, you know. He once was among the most ardent and celebrated of the Dark Lord’s followers.”

Harry wanted to snap back, to defend Snape, but he paused, considering whether rising to his professor’s defense would come back to bite him later. He couldn’t see a way for Snape to regain Voldemort’s trust…but the man _was_ perhaps the most cunning person Harry knew. If anybody could do so, Snape could. If so, maybe this would be a good time for Harry to express doubt over Snape’s alliances. Lay the foundation of supposed distrust, for Snape to perhaps wheedle his way back in.

He almost went that direction. But he looked at Malfoy, truly looked at him, and as much as the man seemed to want to needle Harry, he truly seemed to want to know the answer. Harry’s intuition told him to go with the truth, so he did. “Severus Snape is on the right side,” he said steadily. “He may have done some awful things, but he chose to change his path. The Order trusts him, and so do I. _Your_ leader is the one who turns on his followers, who punishes those who are loyal to him. Not mine. Not Dumbledore.”

Malfoy leaned back, arms still crossed. “My, my. So dear Severus has managed to ingratiate himself with the Boy Who Lived. I do wonder if you’d be quite so loyal to the dear professor if you knew the long list of things he has done…”

“I don’t care about that,” Harry shook his head, though he was nervous that Malfoy might actually start to tell him. Harry didn’t want to know, because he _wasn’t_ sure he’d be able to overlook the horrible things Snape had had to have done in Voldemort’s service. He didn’t want to know if Snape had murdered or tortured or worse. He didn’t want details. He knew that Snape was on the right side now, and that’s all he needed or wanted to know.

He reached into his pocket, relieved to find his mum’s heart-shaped stone still there. He rubbed his fingers over it and took a deep breath, focusing on it and it alone. After a few moments, he looked back up at Malfoy, who was watching him in silence.

“I trust Snape,” he repeated quietly. “If you want me to turn on him, you’re going to have to try harder.”

“Oh, believe me, boy,” Malfoy murmured, “we will.” He grasped the lantern and got to his feet in one smooth motion. “Before the Dark Lord is finished with the plans he has in store for you, I’ll wager you will be quite willing to turn over your precious professor. Perhaps you will even request the honor of the first curse…or the last,” he added forebodingly.

“Never,” scoffed Harry. He’d already managed to overcome Snape’s past treatment of him. (Okay, well, somewhat overcome. He _did_ still harbor some resentment.) But he already knew Snape had to have done some pretty awful stuff in Voldemort’s service, especially during the first war. Malfoy was insane if he thought Harry was going to turn on Snape just because he heard a few specifics of how Snape _used_ to be. Although… He held back a shiver as he thought to a phrase he’d overheard weeks ago, in a conversation between Snape and Dumbledore. Not for the first time, he wondered what Snape possibly could done to proclaim it as “the worst of all sins.” Was Harry going to find out? Would he have a choice in the matter?

“We shall see,” said Malfoy silkily as he reached for the door of the cell.

“What plans does Voldemort have for me?” Harry blurted out. He didn’t expect that he’d get any answers out of the slimy aristocratic Death Eater, but he had no idea why Voldemort hadn’t already given him the potion, and there was little he could lose by asking. Malfoy studied him for a moment and, to Harry’s surprise, answered, “The Dark Lord appreciates ceremony. You will be our guest until the full moon, three days hence.” And with that, he slipped into the hall and closed and locked the door behind him.

Harry squinted at the light as the door was opened and closed, then licked his dry lips as he thought about what that meant. _The Dark Lord appreciates ceremony?_ Well, Harry reflected, he already knew that about Voldemort, didn’t he? He shivered at the memory of the ceremony he’d been part of in the graveyard the first time Harry’s blood had been taken against his will. What would happen this time? What kind of ceremony would Voldemort perform, and was there a reason it had to be under the full moon, or did the dark wizard just like how it sounded?

He shivered again and wrapped his arms around his knees, drawing them up to his chest. Now that he was alone and awake and had no reason to pretend to be brave, he felt deeply, undeniably afraid. There was something about being hurt and defenseless and not knowing if help would ever come that made him feel like a little kid, like he was small and alone in a great big world that could toss him about and spit him out on a whim.

If he dwelt on his situation any longer, he would break down into either tears or a panic attack, so he closed his eyes and did the only thing he could think to do. He Occluded. He started by pretending that he was in his cupboard, sparing a couple minutes to think about what Snape would say if he were here. He’d roll his eyes and…no, Snape wouldn’t roll his eyes. He’d give Harry _the look_ \- the one that said that Harry was being irredeemably thick - and then he’d lecture him about choosing a memory tied to childhood abuse and deprivation. And Harry would argue back that it was also a place he felt safe from the world, where the people outside would leave him alone, forget he existed for a while, and that those were some of the best times in his childhood. But that would lead to another uncomfortable exchange about the Dursleys, and…

Harry took a deep breath. He couldn’t explain why, but thinking of the maddening conversation that would take place were Snape here made him feel more calm.

He buried his head in his knees and imagined his cupboard. He imagined the smell of the musty air, the tickle of a spider crawling across his leg, the thumping of the stairs as Dudley ran up and down to irritate Harry, the feel of the dust that fell on his head when that happened. He immersed himself in the imagined space, filling his mind until nothing else existed. No Dark Lords, no Malfoys, no cells or pain curses or fear of what the days ahead held for him.

Just him, his cupboard, and the almost-calm of a mostly clear mind.


	39. Window to the Soul

He’d lost all concept of time. Between the dark, windowless cell and his bouts of exhausted sleep and unconsciousness, he had no idea how long it had been since his last audience with Voldemort. Had it been days? Hours? All he knew was that it couldn’t have been three days, as he hadn’t been retrieved for whatever full moon ceremony his captors wanted to perform.

He had initially thought to keep track of time by his meals, but food was so scarce that he quickly gave up. He was fed just enough to not starve. He felt weak from hunger, and maybe that was Voldemort’s plan. Weaken him so that he couldn’t put up a fight.

But the vile wizard was mistaken: so long as there was breath in Harry’s body, he would fight.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t had much opportunity since he’d been thrown in here. He kept expecting to be marched back to that room of stone and pain where he’d be cursed and tortured, and maybe Voldemort would get over his momentary fear of Harry’s mind and try to Legilimize him again.

But time passed and it didn’t happen.

When he found himself feeling disappointed by that, he’d called his own sanity into question. Who in their right mind would actually _want_ to be brought before Voldemort?

Well…he did. Sort of. In a weird, twisted way.

As afraid as he was to be at Voldemort’s mercy, this not knowing what was in store for him was nearly as awful. He didn’t know what was awaiting him over the coming days. All he knew was that right now he was cold and afraid, and it was dark, and he couldn’t escape his nightmares. His friends and the Order definitely knew that he was missing by now, no matter the distractions Cursed-Remus had thought up to keep them off the trail. They would be trying to find him, he was certain of that. But without a spy on the inside, Harry didn’t have much hope that they would succeed.

And then there was the worst part about waiting in his cell: the blood collectors. That’s what he’d taken to calling _those_ visitors, and they were the other reason he was growing weaker. Voldemort hadn’t seen fit to put him under any sort of sleeping potion yet, but he was apparently impatient to start collecting on Harry’s blood. Harry had already been cursed to lie still on three separate occasions while Death Eaters had cast a strange-sounding spell to magically take blood from his body. The last time had been less than half an hour ago, and he was still lying motionless on the cold stone floor feeling woozy from blood loss. They’d given him Blood-Replenishing Potion immediately after the first two times they took his blood. But after the third time, one of the Death Eaters had mentioned that it wouldn’t be effective if taken again so soon.

So here he was, flat on his back, cold and clammy, eyes closed, too tired to move, certain he would either faint or vomit if he tried to so much as twitch.

At least he’d had a few opportunities to put Operation Irritating Teenager into action. He’d taken advantage of every opportunity to say Voldemort’s name when the blood collectors had come, and he could tell that the pain had affected each of them. It was even more satisfying now that he could see their faces, as after the pomp and circumstance of presenting Voldemort’s long-awaited captive was over, the Death Eaters had been coming to Harry’s cell without their masks. Ordinarily Harry wouldn’t want to cause anybody pain, but seeing their faces pinch in discomfort was his only solace that he’d found at least one way to fight back.

A sound from the corridor broke into his thoughts, and he tensed. They usually left him alone for longer than this after taking his blood. He shuddered in fear. As much as they hated him, they were careful to heed their master’s instructions to not do anything that might cause lasting damage. If they took more blood from him right now, it would _definitely_ cause lasting damage. As in, a dead Harry Potter. And as much as Harry hated most of Voldemort’s plans, he was pretty partial to the dark wizard’s order to keep him alive and in one piece.

The cell door creaked open and he raised a shaking hand to shield his eyes from the light streaming in from the corridor. He thought about trying to stand. He didn’t want to appear weak. But he knew he’d never manage. He could only muster up the strength to feebly hold up his head and peer past his fingers to the two - no, three - figures outlined in the doorway. As two of them stepped in, their features were lit up by a muttered _Lumos_. Both men were nondescript, with dark robes, brown hair, and a few extra pounds. But while the first one was clean-shaven, stocky, and had impressively large eyebrows, the second was taller, sporting a beard and a scowl as he lit up the room with his wand.

He didn’t know them. Or…wait. They looked familiar, like he’d seen them before, but he couldn’t place them. But really, what did it matter which Death Eaters were here? It was highly likely these three had been among those who cursed him that first day, who enjoyed seeing him writhe in pain.

He dropped his head and flopped his arm back to the stone floor, watching them warily through heavy-lidded eyes.

The third Death Eater stepped to the doorway and leaned into the door frame. He could make out Lucius Malfoy’s features as the man wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of the room. Well, Harry couldn’t help that, could he? He knew he smelled of sweat and dirt and even blood where they’d spilled some on his clothing. He couldn’t smell like roses if they insisted on denying him a shower. That they gave him one small bucket in the corner for his needs and hadn’t emptied it since yesterday (at least, he thought it was yesterday) wasn’t his fault.

Unibrow Man vanished the contents of the bucket and the room immediately smelled tolerable. Not that Harry couldn’t still use a shower.

“I don’t s’pose a fresh’ning charm is too much t’ ask?” he slurred with as much nonchalance as he could manage. He’d figured out that the blood collectors were easy to rile up with an act of cool unconcern. He’d barely met them, but they were already so predictable. If Beard Guy’s narrowed eyes and clenched jaw were anything to go by, he should be fairly easy to rile up too.

Without warning, a pair of firm hands pulled him upright. It took a great effort to keep his head from lolling back. His eyes met Unibrow’s impassive gaze and he gave the man a weak smirk. “I know th’ name of a good hair tweez’ng spell. Want it?” The man ignored him, making it harder for Harry to learn his weakness. No matter. As soon as he could catch his breath, he’d start saying Voldemort’s name again. It was a small pleasure, but definitely one to look forward to.

He tried to jerk away as Unibrow grasped his chin, but he was too weak to succeed. The Death Eater turned his clammy head to either side, looking him over with something like disgust. “How much did those idiots take?” he clipped angrily. “The Dark Lord won’t get anything out of him in this condition.”

“Does it matter?” Beard Guy sneered as he yanked Harry to his feet. Harry immediately stumbled. The room spun, and he would have toppled over if not for Unibrow catching him under the arms. He was dragged out of the cell before he could protest.

“Of course it matters, Nott,” Malfoy said, walking ahead and leaving the others to the chore of transporting Harry. “Crabbe is right. If you think our lord will be pleased, you are welcome to explain to him why the boy looks like death warmed over.”

Beard Guy - no, Nott - muttered under his breath and reached for one of Harry’s arms when it became apparent that his legs weren’t working properly. Harry kicked out and caught him in the shin, proving that his legs were doing _some_ things properly. He grinned at the man’s yelp. He remembered why the men had looked familiar now. Besides some resemblance to their sons, both wizards had been at the Department of Mysteries with Malfoy a couple months ago. They had been at the fight where he’d lost Sirius.

And then there was the fact that all three Death Eaters had sons Harry’s age. That they could get their jollies out of torturing a classmate of their own children made his disgust and anger burn all the more brightly toward them.

Nott brought back an arm to strike Harry, but Unibrow - Crabbe - shifted his weight to one arm so that he could catch Nott by the wrist.

“Remember our orders!” He hissed. “The Dark Lord needs him alive.”

“Oh, he’ll live, I promise,” Nott said in a dangerously low voice.

Harry considered the benefits of kicking the other two men as well. Crabbe was the only thing holding him upright though. It would probably hurt Harry more to be dropped than it would hurt the man to be kicked. And Malfoy was unfortunately out of reach, having stopped with a bored expression to observe his two squabbling fellows. Instead, Harry found his voice enough to taunt, “So brave, defying _Voldemort_ to hit a defenseless kid.”

Nott and Malfoy both narrowed their eyes at Harry. He couldn’t see Crabbe’s face, but he could feel the faintest shudder from the man at Voldemort’s name.

Good.

“Where’s Voldemort now, huh?” He kept going, wishing his voice weren’t so scratchy. He took a gasping breath. Who knew something as simple as talking could exhaust him so much? “Voldemort too scared to face me in my cell?”

Nott’s eyes were murderous. He stepped closer but Crabbe interfered again. “He’ll get what’s coming to him,” he promised in an icy voice, and Harry tried to suppress a shudder at the dangerous undertones. “The Dark Lord will not be pleased if we take his vengeance for ourselves.”

With an angry huff, Nott turned away, leaving Crabbe to follow and support Harry alone.

Harry got the creeps from being so close to the Death Eater. He desperately wanted to kick him away and insist on walking with his own two feet. Only, he knew that he couldn’t. He was trying to put one foot in front of the other, trying not to lean on the man, but the more he exerted himself the woozier he felt. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding, and dark spots were beginning to take over his vision. He stumbled again. The floor looked strangely inviting, really. Like he could curl up and take a nap… He reached out a hand to the stone beneath his feet to make that nap a reality…

Before he knew what was happening, Crabbe had lifted him so that he was carrying him with one arm under his knees, the other under his shoulders. Harry bucked, trying to be let go. Now _this_ was just humiliating!

“Do you want to spend your last bit of energy fighting me, or would you rather save your strength for what the Dark Lord has in store for you?” the man asked coolly, and Harry stilled. He had a point. Harry didn’t like it, not one bit - it was downright mortifying - but he let the man carry him. He didn’t have to make it easy on him though. He had at least one way to fight back without depleting his limited energy stores.

“Why don’t you call him Voldemort?” he asked. “I always thought Voldemort was an interesting name, has a…er, a unique ring to it. _Voldemort,_ ” he sounded out slowly.

Crabbe’s arm spasmed repeatedly and his eyes tightened from the pain. Harry also saw a tick in his lips, as if the man had been about to smirk, and that worried him into silence. What awful thing was Voldemort about to do that had Crabbe pleased at the thought of delivering the irritating teenager in his arms to the evil wizard’s mercies?

He didn’t have long to find out.

Voldemort was sitting on his…throne, for lack of a better word for the stone seat on the raised platform. Only three Death Eaters besides Malfoy, Crabbe, and Nott were there, and even though they wore no masks, Harry didn’t recognize two of them. The third was Peter Pettigrew. Harry felt what blood he had left rushing to his face at the sight of the man who betrayed his parents and his godfather. Forget about punching Voldemort, at least for now; Harry would settle for one good sock at Pettigrew’s eye.

“Harry,” said Voldemort in a honey-sweet voice. “You look a bit worse for wear.”

The Death Eaters laughed, and Harry spared a thought for how pathetic it was to live life as a brown-noser to an evil, sadistic lunatic. He almost said as much, but he really was tired. Best find out what Voldemort wanted and save his comebacks for when they’d be most needed.

Voldemort motioned for Crabbe to put Harry down. The Death Eater lowered him to sit on the ground when it became clear that Harry’s legs were slightly less stable than Jello, then stepped away to join the others. Determined to not show more weakness than necessary, Harry crossed his legs and rested his chin on one hand as if bored, knowing that it would annoy them. The black dots that spotted his vision from the small effort slowly receded. He only wished his heart would stop pounding at the smallest movement, while he tried not to shiver from fear or cold.

The wizard’s eyes narrowed at him. Yep, Voldemort was annoyed. Good. Harry hid his emotions behind a bored expression.

“I have decided to offer you one more chance,” said Voldemort. “Tell me where to find Severus Snape, and I will ensure that you no longer feel weakness or pain. Refuse, and we shall repeat your welcoming ceremony. My Death Eaters have been practicing,” he said with smile.

Harry tried not to visibly shudder at the thought of his first night there. His muscles still ached from the pain curses, and Voldemort would surely chime in with worse this time if Harry didn’t cooperate. What would happen to his mind after all that? Would it break? Would he be like Neville’s parents?

As horrible as that sounded, it might be inevitable. Harry couldn’t cooperate even if he wanted to. He had no idea where Snape was. Well…almost no idea. He had some guesses. But surely Snape was intelligent enough to not stay at any of those places while Harry was missing and could give him away.

“Cooperate and you’ll kill me instead of torturing me? Um. No thanks,” Harry deadpanned.

“I will not kill you,” Voldemort said as if offering him the world. “I will merely allow you to sleep peacefully for a time, secure in the knowledge that no pain shall touch your mind.”

“So you can do whatever you want with my body? Again, no thanks.”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed. “ _Crucio_!” he yelled so suddenly that Harry didn’t have time to prepare. His insides were torn apart. Pain ran through his veins and bones like fire and he barely registered toppling over and writhing on the ground or the scream that came from his lips.

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Harry panted on the ground, his heart beating so hard and so fast that he wondered if it was possible for a heart to burst from such pressure. He heard footsteps and saw Voldemort’s feet stopped before him, but he didn’t look up. One curse and he was spent, unable to lift his head from the ground. How was he going to survive an hour or more of this?

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” he croaked honestly, giving up on bravado. He just wanted to sleep. Not with Voldemort’s sinister potion, but back in his cell. He’d been an idiot to want to leave its relative safety. Maybe if he convinced Voldemort that he didn’t have the information he wanted, he could go back sooner rather than later.

Voldemort crouched next to him. “Dumbledore has hidden him with you for some time now. You have talked. He has instructed you. You have no doubt exchanged secrets. You must have an idea where he is.”

“I don’t,” he gasped. “I’m just a-a kid. He doesn’t…he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me his secrets.”

“You forget, boy,” he hissed. “I have seen inside your mind. I have seen the nature of your interactions, how frequently they’ve occurred, how you’ve grown _fond_ of him.” Voldemort sneered at that, and Harry almost corrected him. Fondness wasn’t quite how he’d characterize it. It was more like they’d mutually managed to move beyond hatred before whatever truce they’d built had been blown to smithereens by his own carelessness. But it seemed a rather insignificant point to squabble over at the moment. He almost did anyway, just to annoy Voldemort, but…it would involve a lot of words, and that would require energy…

“You trust him,” Voldemort continued. “Pathetically so. I trusted him too, you know, and he betrayed me. He will do the same to you when his self-interest is threatened.”

Harry felt like denying it, but he kept his lips shut. Voldemort was only trying to bait him, trying to get him to say something that would give him more clues to Snape’s whereabouts or his state of mind or anything that could aid in finding him. Harry didn’t have to rise to the bait.

“However,” Voldemort said softly, “I am prepared to be wrong on that count. Severus may very well be loyal to you. And if that is so, do you think that he will attempt to rescue you, hmm?”

Harry kept his face as neutral as possible. He believed that Snape would try, but he didn’t know whether he had a chance of success. And he couldn’t think of any good reasons for Voldemort to be contemplating that question.

“Should we bait a trap, perhaps?” Voldemort asked with a gleeful smile, and Harry’s pounding heart dropped - a very strange sensation, he noted through his dread. “No, Severus is too cunning to fall for anything so common,” the wizard continued. “I expect far more from someone crafty enough to fool _me_.”

Harry shuddered, as much due to the venom in those words as from the leftover pain of the Cruciatus Curse. He knew from the dangerous flashing of Voldemort’s eyes that if Snape were to be captured, his death would not be quick or painless. Voldemort wanted Harry for strategy, but he wanted Snape for revenge. Cruel, sadistic revenge.

Voldemort knelt next to Harry and caressed his cheek with long, bony fingers. Harry flinched but was too exhausted to pull away, even as his scar flared in pain.

“You have gifted me with your blood, Harry,” Voldemort said, his mask of politeness back in place. “Do you know what that means?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he felt a jolt of fear. After the first round of blood collectors had left, his panicked mind had wondered why Voldemort wasn’t waiting for his special ceremony. Was he so impatient to get his hands on more power that he couldn’t wait three measly days?

“It means that I wield more power than you can possibly conceive of possessing,” the dark wizard answered his own question. “It means that when I look into your soul this time, the little tricks of the mind that you’ve been taught will mean nothing. After all, how could the simple mind of a mere boy stand a chance against such power?” he murmured in mock sympathy as he caressed the other cheek.

“I did it before,” Harry whispered. He probably shouldn’t have said that, but in that tense moment, he could only choose between foolish bravado and cowering in fear. And he would turn his own wand on himself before he would cower before this evil, disgusting excuse for a wizard.

Voldemort’s lip curled and he dug his fingers painfully into Harry’s cheek. Yep, definitely shouldn’t have said that. “Sallow!” he barked, and one of the Death Eaters Harry hadn’t recognized shuffled forward with an awkward bow. “Hold him while I look into his mind.” Voldemort let go of Harry’s cheek and rose to his feet.

A pair of fleshy arms pulled him up by his elbow, the angle making him gasp in pain. He acted on instinct, kicking out and smirking when he connected with his second shin of the day.

Sallow cursed and dropped him, which hurt too. Harry glared at the man but flinched as he saw a leg pulled back, ready to serve him a vicious kick to the side.

“ _Crucio!_ ” At Voldemort’s curse, Sallow dropped and writhed on the ground, involuntarily screaming in pain. “You dare take it upon yourself to decide when our prisoner is to be punished?” Voldemort screeched. “ _I_ decide such things.”

“I ap-pologize, m-my l-lord,” stuttered the prone Death Eater. He was still convulsing in pain when Voldemort gestured to the other Death Eaters, and a different pair of arms quickly raised him into a kneeling position, one arm holding Harry’s behind his back, the other holding him firmly in place with an arm around his chest. Harry tried to twist, but the arms tightened, and he couldn’t move his legs from where they were pinned beneath his body.

He tried not to panic as a smiling Voldemort knelt in front of him and he felt his eyes magically forced to stay open.

No. He couldn’t do this again. He furiously tried to wriggle his way out of the Death Eater’s hold, but it was no use. He was in a vice hold. He couldn’t break free. And then…

His mental wall didn’t stand a chance. With one push, Voldemort demolished it, scattering Harry’s thoughts like dust in the wind. The pain in his scar was unreal, and as much as he tried to remain stoic, he couldn’t hold in a loud howl as the pain ripped his mind apart. When the memories came, he had no control over them. Voldemort’s power overcame his weak attempts, swatting him aside like a weak and harmless gnat.

_Snape was lowering his fork, a frown on his face as he looked across the kitchen table at Harry…_

_Snape was darting a glance up as Harry’s cauldron gave an unexpected hiss…_

_Dumbledore and Snape were staring at him over shards of broken glass on the drawing room floor…_

Memory after memory of the past month flowed through Harry’s mind, too fast and too strong for him to control. Voldemort was sifting through them with ease, looking for something of use.

_Dumbledore was sitting in the drawing room, speaking to Harry. “The prophecy alludes to a servant of Voldemort…”_

The presence in his mind stopped, tensed, and focused in on that memory, sifting through, digging deeper, and Harry was powerless to stop it.

_Trelawney’s image was drifting out of the Pensieve. “THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN…HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN BOUND BY TWO MASTERS…”_

As Voldemort viewed Trelawney’s second prophecy in its entirety, Harry had the presence of mind to realize that he was crying. It was too much. The physical pain, the helplessness, the guilt…he’d betrayed Dumbledore and Snape. Snape’s prophecy had been told to him in confidence, and now Voldemort knew it. How could he have let this happen? He gave another push against Voldemort’s mind, trying to summon the wind that he had called on before. It wasn’t there. It was walled off somehow, beyond his reach.

And this _hurt_. It all hurt _so much_.

In that moment of physical awareness, he tried to break free again, desperate to be let go, but the arms were painfully tight around his chest, the body behind him unyielding.

He convulsed and cried out again, losing track of all physical sensation as Voldemort’s rage coursed through him and the wizard continued his descent into Harry’s weaker mind.

_“They will go to Kneader’s Point,” Snape was saying, stubbornly lifting his chin…_

_“I’m done,” Snape was saying as he left Harry’s room. “Practice Occlumency on your own…”_

_Snape was handing him a ring, explaining, "this is charmed," and waiting for him to take it…_

Voldemort severed the connection so quickly that Harry gasped and would have fallen over if not for the body holding him upright. He blinked, trying to remain alert, but his head was splitting open and he felt awful and…and…

He leaned his head forward and vomited the small amount of food he still had in his stomach. The arms holding him let go with a curse and he fell sideways to the ground.

Well, he thought, if he died, at least he could die happy in the knowledge that he’d thrown up all over a Death Eater. Nott, he realized as he rolled over and squinted up. Even better. The man was disgustedly aiming cleaning charms at his arms and sleeves. Harry managed a shaky grin through his pain.

His arm was grasped painfully, which wiped the smile from his face. A kneeling Voldemort yanked Snape’s ring from his finger and studied it with a frown. “How does it work?” he demanded.

“Dunno,” Harry rasped, then changed his answer to “I’ll t-tell you for a glass of w-water” at Voldemort’s raised wand. To his surprise, Voldemort took his bargain seriously and waved a hand in the air as if to summon a servant - which Harry supposed the Death Eaters were to him. A second later, someone was charming his shirt clean of vomit, pulling him upright, and shoving a conjured glass of water into his shaking hands. It was Malfoy this time, he noted as he gulped greedily from the glass and devolved into a coughing fit when he swallowed too fast. Nott was standing far away from him, shooting disgusted looks his way, while Crabbe stood next to him like a good soldier, seeming indifferent to the goings on. Sallow, Pettigrew and the other Death Eater looked on with rapt attention, though none seemed inclined to come closer. He hoped they remembered what had happened the last time Voldemort had Legilimized Harry. And he wished to Merlin he could figure out how to do it again. It was no use though, not while Voldemort was this strong.

His coughing under control, he took a few more careful sips of water and then set the glass down with unsteady hands. He pulled away from Malfoy, determined to sit up on his own no matter the effort it took to do so. The Death Eater seemed fine with that, rising to stand with Crabbe and Nott. Harry swayed but managed to sit upright. Barely.

Voldemort paid him no mind at first, examining the small silver and green ring. He held it up to the light. “Do you know what this is?” he asked conversationally, as if he hadn’t viciously violated Harry’s mind a minute earlier. Harry wasn’t sure what he wanted him to say. It was kind of obvious what it was - a ring with some sort of spell or charm put on it. But it must have been a rhetorical question, for Voldemort continued without requiring a response. “It is an ancestral ring. Imbued with an ancient magic. Only the most noble pureblood families own such things. I imagine this ring has been in Severus Snape’s family for generations.” He looked at Harry and his lips rose in a vile imitation of a grin. “You are surprised, I see.”

Harry was, but that was hardly Voldemort’s business. “Surprised you noticed anything beyond your own nose, is all,” he shrugged. Unfortunately, the shrug threw him off balance, ruining the effect of his nonchalant act. He caught and braced himself with one arm.

Voldemort curled his lip but continued, “Ancestral magic is strong magic. To bind such a ring to himself would be simple enough for someone of his capabilities. I imagine it is strong enough to reach him across any distance. So tell me. How does it work? Does it allow you to summon him? To communicate with him?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“I can easily see inside your mind for myself,” Voldemort threatened, and Harry shuddered at the thought of him once more sifting through his thoughts, tearing his mind apart, crushing his already throbbing head until he died from the pressure.

“It - it alerts him when I need help,” Harry admitted, figuring Voldemort had already deduced that much and there wasn’t anything more he could tell him anyway. “Beyond that, I don’t know. He didn’t tell me, and I haven’t used it.” It didn’t count when the one time he had, he didn’t stick around long enough to find out if it had worked, right?

Voldemort apparently believed him. He looked entirely too pleased as he pocketed the ring, and Harry shuddered at what he could possibly do with it. Would he use Harry to bait a trap for Snape using the ring? If so, Harry would refuse, of course…but Voldemort was plenty strong enough now to force him without much effort.

“It is a shame you do not know more about a great many things,” Voldemort said calmly. “Neither Severus nor Dumbledore confide in you very much, do they? But then, you _are_ a child. One cannot expect the Order to divulge many useful secrets to a boy not yet old enough to Apparate.” From his patronizing tone, he was trying to get a rise out of Harry, but Harry couldn’t be bothered to be offended at the moment. He _was_ still a kid. He always wanted to know more than he was told, but look at how many times his curiosity, his need to know things, had gotten him into hot water. At this point, he just wanted to go home and be happy that he had people willing to protect him with their secrets. Not that that contentment would last long once he got home…but it was a nice thought.

“They do divulge some secrets, however, do they not? Certain prophecies and whatnot?”

He barely had time to register the question when Voldemort again knelt in front of him and grasped his chin. He registered the look in Voldemort’s eyes and his inability to close his own and terror overtook him. He quickly jerked himself from the wizard’s grasp. He tried to stand, to run, but he was still too weak, and an instant after he fell to the ground, a different pair of Death Eater arms was lifting him, pinning his arms to his side, and forcing him to kneel in front of their master.

He whimpered, and he hated himself for the show of weakness, but he was terrified of Voldemort’s power, terrified of the pain he was about to experience all over again. The arms holding him tightened, bracing him against a stranger’s chest, and he knew it was pointless to try to escape. He tried to prepare himself but…

_Pain._ His scar erupted in pain, and memories flew through his mind so fast that he couldn’t make sense of them. Voldemort could though. He sifted through them with purpose, with a sense of glee even, looking for something in particular, discarding each memory that did not serve his purpose. The flip book of memories finally stopped and stilled.

_Dumbledore was watching him with sad eyes. “I believe the prophecy to be speaking of Severus Snape.”_

The memory fast-forwarded, Voldemort’s impatience rushing through Harry like a wave.

_The headmaster was saying softly, “…the side which Professor Snape chooses will have the victory.”_

_“…that he would be the key to unlocking your power to defeat Voldemort…”_

“Lies!” he heard outside his mind, and Voldemort’s anger coursed through him.

But wait. How could he feel Voldemort’s emotions? How was that possible? Voldemort was Legilimizing him, not the other way around. There was no potion. He shouldn’t be able to read Voldemort’s emotions or his thoughts…should he? He couldn’t when Snape Legilimized him, not unless he did it with the aid of the potion-

He gave an involuntary scream as Voldemort broke through a barrier deep within his mind, scattered his memories as if specks of sand, reminding him that now probably wasn’t the time to puzzle over the theory behind the mental arts. Not that he could once Voldemort continued sifting through memories.

_He was running through the Department of Mysteries, aiming a curse…_

_Sirius was falling through the Veil as he watched helplessly…_

“No!” he screamed but he didn’t manage to break away. Voldemort carried on, digging deeper.

_He was in Dumbledore’s office, broken objects scattered around him. Trelawney’s ghost-like form rose from the Pensieve…_

A feeling of glee rushed through him, stronger than before, and he knew Voldemort had found what he’d been looking for. He tried desperately to pull up memories, to think of love, to summon a mental whirlwind or tornado or _anything_ that would help him, but it was useless. He was helpless, watching as Voldemort finally found the prophecy he longed to hear in its entirety.

_THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…_

Finally! He had waited for this moment for fifteen long years. The anticipation made his heart race in excitement.

Where had that come from? He hadn’t thought that. Those weren’t his thoughts. Was he performing Legilimency? No. He was _being_ Legilimized. He didn’t understand…

_BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM…_

Desperate to do something, anything, he reached out, following the tendrils of thoughts that weren’t his, immersing himself in the emotions he didn’t feel, following, following where it led, giving over to it until he could barely tell the difference between his mind and that of his invader.

_BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…_

He could follow it no more. But the presence surrounded him. He could feel its joy, feel its anticipation, even knew its thought to reward his Death Eaters with a feast tonight. He summoned all the strength he had left and pushed from inside the presence that enveloped him.

The mind that wasn’t his own faltered, and Harry felt a sense of confusion and alarm in the energy around him. It stood in stark contrast to his own excitement. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he’d done _something_! He tried again, bracing himself and pushing as if his life depended on it…as it very well did.

_AND THE DARK LORD WILL-_

His brain was on fire. He was screaming. So was he. No…so was the other “he.” The mind that was his own but was someone else’s. They were joined as one, and he couldn’t break away. Neither could _he_.

Memories that weren’t his own flowed through his mind, too fast to control.

_A young boy with dark hair was pointing a wand at a cat. “Avada…”_

_The same boy, older now, was talking to a snake…a very big snake…telling it to kill…_

And so on, and all his broken mind could piece together was that it wasn’t him, that he wouldn’t do those things, that he wouldn’t mindlessly kill, that he’d rather protect-

More screams. Yells. He felt panic, both inside himself and in the air around him.

He didn’t know what was happening, just wanted it to stop-

It stopped.

His head felt light. The invading presence was gone. He slumped back against the Death Eater whose arms still held him upright, unable to care who was supporting him as long as they did so for a little while longer.

He was able to close his eyes, but now that they were closed, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to open them again. At least until he began to register the sounds and sensations around him.

Panic and confusion fueled the air. He could feel it like an electrical charge. Fear was there too, but that was more like an odor. Like a prickling in his nose that he could sense but knew he wouldn’t be able to describe if asked. Sounds grew in intensity, forming a cacophony of disjointed exclamations, muttering, shouts…

He forced his eyes open, needing to know where Voldemort was now that he was coming to his senses.

He hadn’t known what to expect. An angry wizard, angry enough to torture Harry anew? Or perhaps again fearful of Harry’s mind? Even if Harry himself didn’t know what had happened... What he saw was so much more surprising.

Voldemort had crumpled to the ground. He was surrounded by his Death Eaters - all but the one holding Harry, that is, which by process of elimination he figured out was Crabbe - and he wasn’t moving. He was unconscious.

Harry laughed.

Nott didn’t appreciate his humor. He yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Harry stumbled, still disoriented after the mystery of what had happened. But he remained standing. He didn’t fall. He felt stronger. Why was he stronger? He shouldn’t be.

Like earlier, Crabbe caught him by the arm to steady him, and Harry wondered if the man was one of those fanatic-like followers of Voldemort, following his orders no matter what. Like keeping Harry in one piece even though he was the bane of their existence.

Even though Harry had rendered their master - their insanely powerful master - unconscious.

Well, Harry didn’t need to make his creepy fanaticism easier. Bolstered by his win, he kicked out, catching the man in the shin like he’d wanted to do earlier. _Three for three._ He grinned as Crabbe yelped and almost lost his grip on Harry’s arm. The man readjusted, positioning him so that the angle wasn’t ideal for shin kicking.

Nott inched forward, but Crabbe waved him away. “He is not worth the trouble. See to the Dark Lord. I’ll bring him to his cell.”

Sallow grabbed at Harry to help, and he kicked out at him too, happy when the man warily shied away. He opened his mouth to taunt them with Voldemort’s name, but he coughed instead. His throat was parched, as if he hadn’t drunk anything for days. Unfortunately, with what had just happened, he doubted anyone was about to offer him more water.

He felt a chill despite himself at the pure _hatred_ in Nott’s eyes. Before Harry could find out what it was like to be murdered by a Death Eater, Crabbe manhandled him toward the doors of the room, Sallow following closely behind - but not too closely. But Harry was feeling angry and defiant, and he was bolstered by the fact that he could walk now, so he didn’t make it easy. He twisted and bumped and stumbled on purpose until the Death Eater gave him a small shake and tightened his hands almost painfully around his arms.

“Careful, Potter,” Crabbe said in a low voice, “You wouldn’t want to harm yourself on the way to the dungeons. Who knows what _unusual creatures_ may lurk there, ready to pick at the bones of particularly bothersome children.”

He heard Sallow laugh appreciatively at the frightening tale, and it took several seconds of struggling for the words to sink in. When they did, he had to force himself to not freeze. He allowed himself to be led through the door and down the steps, struggling halfheartedly while his brain zoomed through the implications of those words.

Unusual creatures.

Crabbe had definitely stressed the words _unusual creatures_. Those were the words from Dumbledore’s coded Portkey message to Snape earlier that summer. They were the words Snape had used to explain to Harry how to decipher the code. When Harry had wanted to know more codes, Snape had told him to stop bothering him about it. He’d mockingly said that if needed, Harry would be given a code, “no doubt involving numerous nonsensical phrases concerning unusual creatures.”

It was a coded message. It had to be!

Harry had no idea what it meant that Crabbe had said the words, whether he was a spy or whether something else was going on, but he knew one thing. Only Snape would have known that those words would mean something to Harry.

No matter how Crabbe fit into this, that meant one important thing:

Snape knew where he was. And somehow, someway, he was working to get him back.

Harry tried not to show how relieved he felt, how much worry had lifted off his shoulders with that revelation. He fake-stumbled almost obediently back to his cell, hoping the entire way that Crabbe would give him another hint, some way of knowing what was going on, some clue about whether a rescue attempt was imminent.

If only they didn’t have company. Sallow held open the door to the cell and Crabbe helped Harry to sit against the wall. The man lingered a moment longer than necessary and Harry sought out his gaze, hoping that he’d give him just one more clue to go on. Anything, anything at all.

He felt a feather-light brush against his mind, there and gone within seconds, before the man stood and turned back toward the door. It clanged shut, leaving Harry alone in the darkness.

It was enough. Harry knew that mind. He smiled.

Crabbe wasn’t Crabbe. He was _Snape_!


	40. Death Eaters are the Worst

Snape was here! _Snape_ was here. Snape was _here_!

Harry laughed. For the first time since he’d been captured, he felt like he could breathe. Snape was a master spy. He was intelligent and cunning and always five steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Harry was as good as saved!

Unless Voldemort found out.

His smile gave way to a horrified frown.

What was Snape _thinking_ , telling Harry who he was? Voldemort would Legilimize it right out of him! Perhaps he had managed to kick him out of his head in the end, but Voldemort had found out plenty of information in the meantime. And as soon as he found out this tidbit, he’d capture Snape and torture him and kill-

Just as quickly as the weight had lifted off his chest, it settled back in - as if a feather blown away by a breeze, only to land again in the same place, now ten times as heavy as before.

He glared at the door, though it was so dark in his cell that he only knew where the door was by the faint crack of light at its base. Dark wizards and Legilimency and secret identities and spycraft really _sucked_.

Like, a lot.

Well, there was no going back now. He’d merely have to get to work readying his mind. All those beginner tips and tricks Snape had taught him had been worthwhile, but they wouldn’t help him against a super-powered Voldemort. He’d have to come up with another plan. He went over the facts, the things that he knew for sure:

One, Harry could feel Voldemort’s emotions and hear some of his thoughts while he was being Legilimized. Which wouldn’t have happened if he had been Legilimized by any other wizard. Due to their unique connection, most likely. He set that aside for later consideration.

Two, he had managed to expel Voldemort from his mind only after giving up on his impulse to fight. Instead, his instincts had urged him to give in, to meld his mind with Voldemort’s somehow. But what exactly _had_ happened and how, he didn’t quite understand.

Three, as far as he knew - and when Legilimency wasn’t involved - their mental connection only went one way. Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort had ever made any indication that Voldemort could see into Harry’s mind from a distance like Harry could see into Voldemort’s. So back to item number one: was it possible that due to that one-sided connection, Voldemort couldn’t Legilimize Harry without their connection getting in the way? Being so close mentally when Harry already had a path directly into Voldemort’s mind was bound to cause some sort of disruption, right?

So maybe all he had to do was look for the mental threads of that disruption and give a good strong tug…

He hopped up and started to pace in the small, dark space. And that made him stop short to add another item to the list.

Four, he went before Voldemort weak from a combination of pain curses and hunger and blood loss. He could barely sit or hold up his head by the end, much less stand. Now, mere minutes after being returned to his cell, he was strong enough to frantically pace it. How had _that_ happened?

He experimentally stretched his arms and legs. He still felt sore and tired and hungry. He definitely still had bruises on his body, mainly from the first day. His scar still burned, and his headache had never left. But none of it was quite as bad as before, and he now had energy and strength that had been lacking. It couldn’t be mere adrenaline. He’d been too weak and he felt too much better now. Had he somehow borrowed strength from Voldemort’s mind in the same way he’d “borrowed” his thoughts and feelings? Was such a thing even possible?

Well, he wouldn’t have thought before that some ritual involving his blood would strengthen Voldemort either, had he, so who’s to say what was possible and what wasn’t? Especially where their connection was concerned.

He wished that either Snape or Dumbledore were here to bounce his ideas off of. Preferably both. With their joined minds, they would quickly come up with a very excellent theory about what was going on.

Until then, he would be ready to try to replicate whatever he’d done. Voldemort may still be able to get past his defenses, but now that Harry knew to look for and follow those threads of Voldemort’s mind in his, he would try to get the dark wizard out of his head as quickly as possible.

Snape’s life depended on it. And by extension, Harry’s.

* * *

He hadn’t been back in his cell for more than an hour when footsteps alerted him to company and his cell door was thrown open. Harry barely had time to register the stream of light and Nott’s angry face before he was hauled to his feet by the front of his dirty jumper and slammed against the stone wall. He winced as his head connected with the wall with a sharp _crack_ and a burst of pain.

“What did you do?” Nott yelled so close to Harry’s face that spittle landed on his cheek.

Harry shook his head to clear it but knew that was the wrong move as soon as he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.

Nott shook him. “What did you do?” he demanded again.

“I don’t know what-”

“The Dark Lord!” Nott yelled. “He has yet to awake. What did you do to him?”

“I don’t know!” Harry cried honestly. Voldemort was still knocked out? Harry probably shouldn’t laugh at that image. He _really_ shouldn’t laugh. For once, he listened to his own advice, if barely. He thought Nott might have caught the twitch of his lips.

He was slammed against the wall again, and he cried out as his head connected with the stone a second time. So _that’s_ what it meant to see stars, he thought randomly, trying to block out the pain in his head by studying the flashing lights in his vision.

“Nott!” hissed a voice from the doorway. “I said you could question him, not rough him up!” Harry thought he recognized Sallow through his spotty vision. The Death Eater looked over his shoulder down the hallway. “Pettigrew will be back any minute-”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of that little rat,” Nott growled, his eyes never leaving Harry.

“Only insofar as he _is_ a rat,” shot back Sallow contemptuously. “You know if he catches us in here without permission, he’ll run to the Dark Lord with the tale of our wrongdoing.”

“This brat did something to the Dark Lord, and I will find out what! If you think he’ll punish me for getting to the bottom of this, you’re-”

“You know he may not see it that way,” reasoned Sallow. He nervously stepped into the room and edged closer to where Nott held Harry in a vice grip. “You know how he’s been since…” he glanced sidelong at Harry, as if wondering how much to say. “You know he’s as likely to kill you as reward you these days. So let someone else play the hero, hmm?”

Nott sneered at Harry, and Harry held in a shudder at all that hatred on display, and all directed at him. A man with that depth of loathing in his eyes could do anything in the heat of the moment, fear of a Dark Lord aside. Harry quickly decided that in this particular instance, baiting them would not be the wisest course of action. So he stood silently - not that he had any choice, pinned as he was against the wall - and waited for them to come to a mutual decision about how to proceed.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long. An instant later, he was doubled over on the ground from a punch to the stomach. A kick to the ribs swiftly followed. He groaned, curling in on himself, but Nott wasn’t in the mood to give him time to wallow in his misery. The Death Eater knelt in front of him and pulled him upright by a painful grip on his hair. Somewhere above them, Sallow sighed in resignation and paced back to the door to keep watch.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Nott seethed.

Harry took a bracing breath, knowing there was no easy way out of this confrontation. He couldn’t give Nott answers that he himself didn’t have. “I don’t know,” he repeated weakly and readied himself for the next blow.

Instead of punching him again like Harry had expected, Nott grasped Harry’s right hand and wrenched two of his fingers as far as they could go without breaking. Harry gasped as tears of pain came to his eyes. He scrambled with his other hand to pull Nott off of him, but it was no use. The man was far bigger and stronger than he was.

“I swear I don’t know!” Harry said in a rush. “It all happened so fast- _aaaagh!_ ” He was wrong - they _could_ bend farther without breaking.

“Keep it down!” Sallow hissed from the doorway.

“I can make things so much worse for you, boy,” Nott threatened. “And with no one the wiser.” He let go of Harry’s fingers long enough to put one large hand over Harry’s throat, holding onto Harry’s arm with the other so that he couldn’t move without wrenching it. He squeezed. Not enough to block Harry’s airflow completely, but enough to leave him gasping for breath. Enough to make the threat clear. He pressed harder…

Harry started to panic. He didn’t know what to do. This man was obviously unhinged. He didn’t think he would kill him, not when Voldemort didn’t want him to, but he didn’t want to stake his life on it. And…and he couldn’t breathe. Black spots merged with bright lights as the world began to fade away in a haze of terror and fear…

“Nott!” Sallow hissed and pulled him off of Harry just in time for another shadow to cross the threshold. Two shadows? Then again, Harry _was_ seeing two Notts and two Sallows right then, so he couldn’t quite trust his eyes.

He collapsed, hacking, coughing, and gasping, trying to catch his breath but also not wanting to breathe. It felt like fire in his throat, and the coughing only served to hurt his head, stomach, and ribs. He rolled onto his side, hugged his knees to his chest, and tried to pretend for the sake of his dignity that his cheeks weren’t wet with tears.

“The Dark Lord will not be pleased if you’ve damaged the boy,” came a voice from the doorway. Crabbe? It sounded like Crabbe’s voice, and Harry sent up a prayer that it was him, and that Snape was still in his guise. He stayed on the ground, afraid to look up for fear of betraying either hope or recognition.

“Come off it, Crabbe,” said Nott. “You know he’s our best chance at figuring out what’s going on.”

“And? Was he forthcoming?” asked Crabbe in a neutral voice. Or was it Snape? Please be Snape, Harry wished again, eyes closed.

“No.” Feet shuffled, and Harry tried hard not to flinch when they stopped next to his curled-up body. Nott’s voice was closer when he said, “But give me time, and the boy will sing.” His voice was cold and merciless, and Harry gasped when the man kicked out at him, catching in the ankle. He curled up tighter, bringing his arms up to protect his head, just in case.

“You’ve made your point,” said Crabbe as if bored, though his voice held an edge of steel. “Go upstairs. Cool off. I’ll not have you killing the prisoner two minutes into my shift.”

Harry didn’t know what silent communication went on in the room while he protected his head for dear life, but it took Nott several seconds to huff and stomp his way out of the cell, closely followed by what he presumed to be Sallow’s footsteps.

“Pettigrew. See them to the hall, won’t you? We wouldn’t want them to get lost, wind up back where they started,” Crabbe’s condescension was heavy enough for Harry to catch as the door shut on the three - no, four - men arguing in the hallway. He couldn’t hear them, only the general timber of men’s voices, and he groaned aloud as he started to take stock of his injuries in the darkness.

His fingers and joints throbbed, his ribs and stomach ached, and his throat felt like it was on fire. But his head was what bothered him the most. He wished he remembered how to tell if a person had a concussion. Something told him that nausea and blurred vision were on the list. He groaned again and lay still when moving only caused his body to scream in protest.

He could really use some more of that Legilimency-induced strength right about now.

He flinched when the door abruptly opened and closed, and a muttered _lumos_ lit the darkness before his eyes were prepared. He squinted and instinctively brought his arms back up to protect his head.

“We don’t have much time. Where are you injured?”

Crabbe knelt next to him, his blurry face lined with urgency. Oh, thank Merlin!

“Is it you?” he murmured, trying to decide which of the two Crabbes in his vision to focus his eyes on. He settled on the one on the left.

“Yes,” the man answered quickly. “Where are you hurt?”

Harry thought for a second. He needed to make sure… “What-” he licked his lips in thought, “What did Remus give me for my birthday?”

Crabbe looked about to lose his patience, but he snapped, “a bloody ridiculous pocket watch.”

Harry smiled in relief. “It _is_ you.”

“Potter, we don’t have much time. The Dark Lord trusts no one these days. Since my defection, he is constantly on guard against traitors in his midst. He has us watching you in pairs so that no one is alone with you. I’ve bought us mere minutes.”

Harry nodded, but that hurt both his head and his throat, so he stopped. He tried to focus on Snape’s question. “Um…head, ribs, stomach, neck, hand. That order.”

Snape nodded and set his lit wand aside to pull some vials from his robe.

“I don’t suppose you brought some Harry headache potion with you?” Harry asked softly when he realized that talking any louder hurt his throat too much.

“Your scar?”

“Yeah. It hurts…like, all the time.”

Snape helped him to sit up - which hurt, but Harry wasn’t going to complain - and handed him a familiar-looking clear vial. Harry downed it and instantly felt his head and vision begin to clear. The nausea faded as well. Even the pain in his throat eased up a bit.

“Woah. That’s some powerful stuff.”

Snape didn’t acknowledge his awe, focusing in on the next order of business. “Lift your shirt. I need see the damage.”

Harry obeyed, watching and hissing as Snape carefully poked and prodded his stomach and ribs. It was so strange, this watching Crabbe but knowing it was Snape. Some of the right expressions were there - his frown, his impatient glare - but they looked all wrong on a stranger’s face, like he had to learn how to read him all over again…and yet at the same time it was like seeing an old familiar friend in a new suit.

“Are you sure Crabbe would be quite so protective of a prisoner?” he asked. “I mean, what if they figure out you’re not him?”

“Are you questioning my spying abilities?” Snape shot him a look. In Crabbe’s face, Harry couldn’t decide if it meant he was amused or affronted. Maybe both.

“No. Maybe. You don’t think they’ll be suspicious of you interfering with Nott all the time?”

“Trust me, Crabbe and Nott bicker at the best of times,” Snape humored him but frowned in concentration as he moved closer to put gentle pressure on Harry’s ribs. “I chose Crabbe strategically. He is neither as dense as Goyle nor as ruthless as Nott. He holds a position of authority but is not so close to the Dark Lord as to be constantly in his presence.”

“Ow,” Harry hissed at a particularly painful prod of Snape’s fingers.

“Nothing is broken. Bruise balm would be too suspicious if they check your injuries. A potion and salve for pain will have to do.” Snape began to spread the salve on Harry’s stomach and lower chest, and if he was losing his gentle touch, Harry couldn’t blame him. They _were_ in a bit of a time crunch. Come to think of it, who knew when they’d get the chance to talk again…

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted in a rush. “I didn’t think, and I know it’s not an excuse, but I’ll never do it again, I swear. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do respect your privacy, professor, I just didn’t connect the dots in that moment, and I was so curious, and I’m used to people lying or not telling me things, and I didn’t _think_ when I got the chance to know what was happening, and-”

Harry stopped talking when Snape held out his hand for silence. “We will discuss it when we get out of here,” he said without giving away what he was thinking. “Now is not the time.”

Harry shook his head, unwilling to wait. What if he went under Voldemort’s sleeping potion and never woke up? “I’ll never do it again, I mean it. I broke the Wall Watchers and-”

“I know,” said Snape. He looked exhausted all of a sudden, and Harry wondered what his last few days had been like. “I saw them. In your room. When we were frantically searching Kneader’s Point for you.”

Harry swallowed. He felt bad about that now too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare everyone.”

Snape shot him an exasperated look, mixed with something else. Guilt? “You’re _sorry_ for being kidnapped against your will by someone you had every reason to believe you could trust?”

Harry shrugged, sheepish. When he put it that way… “Did you - did Remus…?” He wasn’t sure how to ask what he needed to know.

“I figured it out. And he’s fine,” Snape anticipated his next question as he examined Harry’s hand and rubbed salve into the joints. “Other than recovering from a snake bite, your mangy friend is right as rain.”

His eyes opened wide. “Hunter _bit_ him?”

“Later. We’ll talk later. After we get out of here.”

“Promise?” he asked, bolstered by the fact that Snape didn’t seem like he was going to go back to ignoring him. Not right away, anyway.

Snape gave him a searching look. “You have my word. Now, on to the matter at hand? Your dire circumstances and numerous injuries? Or did you manage to forget you are currently imprisoned in a dank, dark dungeon by the most powerful and evil wizard on the planet?”

Harry grinned. It hadn’t been more than a few days, but he’d missed Snape’s sarcastic humor. But he sobered up as Snape’s words penetrated his mind.

“D’you think he’s more powerful than Dumbledore now?”

“Undoubtedly.” Snape pulled another vial out of his robe.

Harry shivered at the certainty in Snape’s voice…er, Crabbe’s voice, technically. “How do we stand a chance against him now?” he asked in a small voice.

“We always stand a chance until the moment we stop fighting,” answered Snape matter-of-factly as he directed Harry to drink.

They both froze at a sound down the corridor. Harry quickly downed the contents of the vial, and Snape gathered the empty vials into his pockets and hurriedly stood up.

“But I need to talk to you about what happened. With You-Know-Who,” Harry realized in a panic. “I don’t know what happened or how, and what if he Legilimizes me again and I can’t do it again?”

Snape took a deep breath and quickly looked him over clinically, as if making sure he didn’t sport any more obvious injuries. “I’ll be back if I can manage it. Until then, trust your instincts. You have a natural affinity for the mental arts.” He met his eyes, something like awe in his gaze. “More so than I’d imagined.”

Then his neutral, dutiful Crabbe expression was back in place, and he quickly picked up his wand and turned toward the door.

“I’m scared,” Harry admitted to the man’s back. He didn’t want to be a scared kid, but he needed somebody to know that deep down, that’s what he was.

Snape paused with his hand on the door. “I know,” he said over his shoulder, not looking at Harry. “But you are no longer alone.” He quickly exited the room and Harry was left in darkness once more.

At least this time his head didn’t hurt and his heart felt lighter.

_I’m not alone_.

His circumstances weren’t ideal, and they were bound to get worse, but it was really, really nice to know that he didn’t have to face this all by himself.

* * *

He knew the moment Voldemort awoke by the flare of pain in his scar. It felt even more painful after he’d managed to fall into his first headache-free sleep of his ordeal. It had been plagued by nightmares, but the no headache part had been nice.

Voldemort was _angry_. Harry could feel what Voldemort felt clearly. A lingering effect of what had occurred between them, perhaps? Or a natural occurrence due to their connection and Voldemort’s heightened emotional state?

Whatever it was, he know that the wizard felt fear along with his anger, and Harry clung to that knowledge like a lifeline. If Voldemort feared his mind, then perhaps he wouldn’t Legilimize him again.

Of course, Voldemort was not one to pass up other perfectly good avenues of entertainment.

And so it was that he soon found himself yet again standing - and then writhing on the floor - in the center of Voldemort’s throne room, surrounded by a circle of ten or so eager Death Eaters. Voldemort in his rage had told them to have at it - with the usual stipulations in place to keep Harry from dying - and they had happily obliged with various pain and torture curses. He missed being able to annoy them with Voldemort’s name…but now that he knew Snape was in their midst, he stopped. He didn’t want to hurt him.

He was careful not to give the man away. Snape had entrusted him with his identity, even though it may have been wiser of him to keep himself hidden from Harry until he could figure out a way to get him out of there. And for that, Harry was beyond grateful. He forced himself to not look at “Crabbe” any more than he looked at the rest of them. Which meant that he watched them each in turn, even when he was being cursed, because he couldn’t _not_ look to Snape occasionally to reassure himself that he was there. By the narrowed eyes of the other Death Eaters, he was pretty sure they thought the constant eye contact was a new game he was playing to get on their nerves. Funny enough, it seemed to be working. He felt some satisfaction in getting under their skin even when he hadn’t been trying to.

He was also developing a new level of respect for Snape’s spying prowess. If he didn’t know better, he would swear up and down that he was the real Crabbe. Not that he knew Crabbe, Sr. It’s just…Snape acted the part of a sadistic Death Eater so well that Harry caught himself almost forgetting that he was _Snape_ a few times.

He knew that he was though. As convincing as he was in his role, the man had found subtle ways to let Harry know that he was still him. The first time his turn to curse Harry came along, he sent along with it a subtle silent numbing spell that made the rest of the Death Eaters’ curses tolerable. Harry had had to put his acting skills to the test, not letting them know that he wasn’t in as much pain as he should be. Another time, he taunted Harry about how he’d never again have his cushy life filled with sugar plum puddings and the like.

Harry had almost smiled at the ridiculous insult that the others were stupid enough to eat up and build upon but that reminded Harry of Mrs. Weasley’s care package. Not to mention, that fateful day he and Snape and Dumbledore had talked about whether he had the makings of a Seer.

Snape was careful. He didn’t give Harry many hints, only enough so that he got across that yes, he was still him, not Crabbe; and yes, Harry still was not alone. And that message carried another one to Harry, unspoken but clear: _I am here to get you out of here…so hold on until I can find a way_.

Harry was holding him to it.

He didn’t know what sort of protections Voldemort had on this place, but he could guess that there were a fair number. Anti-tracking, Anti-Apparition, Anti-whatever else you could block against. And he knew that he was never left unguarded. Even if Snape hadn’t told him that he was guarded by at least two men at a time, he heard enough shuffling at all hours outside his cell to prove that Voldemort wasn’t taking chances on him escaping. Even disguised as a trusted Death Eater, Snape would have plenty of hurdles to overcome to get Harry out of here.

Harry also watched Voldemort more closely after Snape’s talk of his increased suspicion of traitors in his midst. And he had gathered while observing Voldemort’s interactions with his followers that he didn’t trust any of them. He’d always been a bit of a fickle leader, but he seemed to have gone to an extreme since the last time Harry had been in his presence. Whether or not it was due to Snape’s unexpected betrayal, Voldemort seemed more unhinged and suspicious than ever before. Harry knew he wasn’t making it up in his mind, because as he watched, he saw fear and uncertainty in the eyes of the Death Eaters more than once.

He cried out as a particularly painful bolt shot through his legs like lightning. That curse had _hurt_. Which meant the numbing spell was wearing off.

A man laughed. Others followed. Now that he could feel the pain, he closed his eyes and tried to block it out. He tried to think about Voldemort, not about what was happening to him.

He didn’t know if Voldemort’s paranoia was good or bad for them. It could be good if Voldemort felt like he was losing control of his support or if his paranoia caused any on-the-fence supporters to leave him. Or it could be bad, because a paranoid Voldemort was more unpredictable, more easily enraged. And the more enraged be became, the more he wanted to hurt someone, anyone. It was also bad for Snape, because it made it basically impossible for one person to get to Harry and get him out of this place without being detected by multiple guards and extensive wards.

And yet, Harry was optimistic. He wondered if the pain curses were permanently messing with his brain, because he was lying in the middle of the large stone room, twitching and gasping at the pain any movement caused his overstimulated nerves, while smiling inside his head at the thought that Snape was the best spy in the history of wizardkind, and _he would find a way_.

But - _ow_ \- he sure hoped he found a way soon, because - _ow_ \- the numbing spell had definitely faded, and he was about to sob from the pain of it all.

He sniffed to hold back the tears forming in his eyes. It was becoming a daily routine, this trying desperately not to cry, either from pain or from despair. But even though they’d all seen him cry over the past days, the last thing he wanted was to be seen as easily broken. He couldn’t help screaming while the pain was inflicted, but he could keep himself from sobbing after. Even if they did eventually break him, he was determined to make them hate how long it took.

“Aw, poor ickle baby Potter,” came one of the voices he hated most in the entire world. Bellatrix’s face swam in his vision. “Are you going to cry? Cry for your mummy? Oh, that’s right. Mummy’s dead, isn’t she?” She laughed. No…she _cackled_. “I’m sure she’s said hello to Sirius for you.”

He thought he might thank her later, for she had given him anger to focus on instead of tears. If he hadn’t been trembling from pain, he certainly would have been from the anger now coursing through his veins. He looked around the circle, needing to ground himself with a glimpse of Snape, but the man was grinning too, pretending to enjoy this. The only hints that he felt differently were the hard glint in his eyes and the white knuckles holding too tightly to his wand.

Bellatrix knelt over him. The other Death Eaters just watched, as they had while others had taken their turns taunting Harry. He could at least be grateful that the verbal taunts had given him a reprieve from the curses on his body.

He hated all of them. They were sick. How could grown adults _enjoy_ torturing a kid? They were evil to the core.

“Maybe your little friend will soon join them,” she taunted. “Ronnie, was it? That was one of my finer moments, wasn’t it?”

It took him several seconds to register her words, and his eyes swiveled to hers. She was grinning more widely now that she knew she had his full attention. And he knew - without a shadow of a doubt _knew_ \- that she had been the Death Eater who had cursed Ron. White hot hatred ran through every nerve in his body.

He didn’t hesitate. One second he was painfully twitching on the ground, and the next he was lunging for her with a throaty yell. He registered her wide eyes and gasp of shock before he took her down, hands around her throat. She scratched at him, and other hands began to pull him away. _No_. That wasn’t going to happen. She’d killed his godfather, and she’d as good as killed his best friend. No way were they taking this away from him. He yelled again as fingers ripped his hands away and lifted him and - a surge of something flowed through him, so basic yet powerful, and he couldn’t control it as it ripped outward from him. The hands fell away in a haze of shouts and he met Bellatrix’s frightened eyes and he was plunged into their depths.

Memories flew through his mind, memories that weren’t his. Bad memories, memories he wanted to forget as soon as he saw them. Torture, death, and things he didn’t think could be worse than death but were. And instinctively, he searched for one particular moment. He knew - just _knew_ somehow - that he could find the information that Kneader needed to break the curse. He knew just what he was looking for…and - he laughed - there it was.

Hands succeeded in pulling him from her this time. Whatever mysterious energy had pooled in him was draining away. But he smiled. He knew what curses she’d used on Ron! He knew, and he just needed to get it to Snape, and Ron would be saved. It would all be okay and-

He screamed as Voldemort’s _Crucio_ erased all conscious thought from his mind. His body curled up in pain, so much pain. _Pain pain pain pain pain_.

_Crucio_ again, and he couldn’t help it - he started to cry between his screams. Bellatrix was right - he did want his mum. He wanted his mum and his dad and Sirius, and he wanted Snape. Snape would have a potion for this, as he did for everything. He would take the pain away. If Harry really, really needed him to, he would even hold him and make it all better. He would slay the dragons and chase away the nightmares. He wanted Snape so badly that he almost called out for him. He bit his tongue, felt the taste of blood in his mouth.

As the third _Crucio_ hit him, and just before he lost consciousness, the thought came to him that Voldemort wanted his body intact, but it would suit his purposes just fine if Harry were to lose his mind.


	41. The Elusive Severus Snape

He _ached_.

For several minutes, that’s all he knew. He ached _all over_. Then his mind caught up to the fact that he was waking from a deep sleep. He lay still, his body hurting too much to move, even if it would help his mind to awaken faster. Had Dudley beat him up? He couldn’t remember. He licked his lips, but his tongue felt like sandpaper. He was thirsty. Way more thirsty than he usually was when he woke up.

His face was warm. Something tickled his nose, but he was too exhausted to brush it away. He breathed in deeply of grass and dirt and the sweet fragrance of fresh air.

He was outside. Why was he outside?

Voices came from nearby, and muted footsteps approached him.

If he had fallen asleep in the yard again, Uncle Vernon would be livid. He might be locked up without food again, and he was already so hungry…

A hand lightly slapped him on the face, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to startle him. He drew up a heavy arm to shield his head and quickly mumbled, “Sorry, Uncle Vernon. Won’t do it again.”

The hand gently but firmly grasped his arm and moved it from his face. “Wake, Potter. Naptime is over,” a voice called loudly from above him. More footsteps neared, along with laughter.

Harry winced at the loudness of it all. His head was killing him, his throat felt raw for some reason, and even the smell of grass was becoming too strong for his overloaded senses. Still…he’d be in even more trouble if he didn’t obey. He slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of a sunny day. A man in dark robes was kneeling over him. Did Harry know him? Those eyebrows looked familiar….

His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as memories came crashing back over him like a wave. _Voldemort. Crabbe. Snape. Crucio. Pain._ He instinctively balled his fist in Snape’s robe. He knew he was doing a lousy job of keeping the fear and desperation out of his eyes. At this point, was it even worth it? Only an idiot wouldn’t be scared out of his mind after everything that had gone on.

Fortunately, Snape had more presence of mind than he did, for he disentangled Harry’s hand from his robe before the other Death Eaters were close enough to notice. He gave it a hard, brief squeeze before he let it go, which helped, but not enough to stave off a budding panic attack. Crabbe - Snape - pulled him upright. A scowl was fixed on his face, but with his eyes firmly fixed on Harry’s, he took a slow, barely exaggerated breath. Harry could practically hear the man telling him to breathe, and he tried. Breathe in. Breathe out.

In… Out.

In… Out.

By the time Snape had him on his feet - supporting him almost completely by a firm grasp on one arm - Harry had his breathing mostly under control. He couldn’t do much about his shaking though. He wasn’t sure how much was due to fear and how much was due to nerve damage. Actually, he was pretty sure it was mainly due to nerve damage. Not that fear wasn’t there. He was terrified.

At least he was still in possession of his sanity.

On the other hand, was he hallucinating Voldemort and a dozen Death Eaters standing before him in a flowery meadow, of all places? He looked around as far as he could without moving his sore neck too much. They were in a clearing, framed as far as he could see by trees, but the trees were far enough away that there was no danger of enemies lurking about with an advantage. Flowers of every color were in full bloom, dotted here and there between the wild green grass and other plants of the forest. It smelled of sunshine and flower and fresh earth after a cleansing rain.

It was beautiful.

Maybe he was dreaming? It would be a nice reprieve from his usual nightmares.

“Harry Potter,” hissed Voldemort from his left, way too real to be a dream. Harry swung his head to the side and almost fell over from the sudden movement. He would have if Snape had not adjusted his strong grip. The Dark Lord was standing to one side, his followers forming a half circle facing him. Snape held Harry in the middle, and Harry wondered how the spy had managed to maneuver himself into that job. However he’d done it, Harry was grateful to have him so near.

Voldemort’s eyes shone with barely contained rage as he inched closer, and Harry supposed he was done playing the part of the gracious host. “Now that you belong to me,” the wizard said in a hard tone, “I think it time you learned to show me proper respect.” He waved his hand in a commanding gesture, and Snape’s hands - Crabbe’s hands, technically - dug into Harry’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees and holding him there.

He forced his fear to the back of his mind and focused instead on the urge to laugh at Voldemort’s stupidity. He could barely stand, so it was kind of nice to be made to kneel, regardless of the humiliation he was supposed to feel. It took far less energy.

He thought Voldemort might have seen the mirth in his eyes, for the wizard’s wand and eyes twitched dangerously.

“What has Severus Snape done to gain your loyalty?” he asked instead in a silky voice.

Harry blinked. Another interrogation? Hadn’t they covered this already? He stiffened, bracing himself for another mental attack. Only, Voldemort didn’t appear ready to repeat that tactic just yet.

“I heard the prophecy about _my servant_ ,” he said disdainfully, as if such a prophecy were too silly to be considered for anything resembling fact. But Harry knew better. If Voldemort was bringing it up, he was concerned. And if the hint of fear in his eyes was anything to go by, that concern had already begun to morph into worry. “Your precious Dumbledore believes it to be about Severus, that somehow my wayward servant’s loyalty will be key to your victory over me. That is quite the conclusion. I wonder what you think.”

Harry cleared his sore throat when it became apparent that he would be required to say something. “I’m sixteen,” he said hoarsely and cleared his throat again even though it hurt. Oh yeah. He’d screamed his head off before, during the Cruciatus Curses. No wonder his throat felt like it had been turned inside out and burned by hot lava. “You don’t care what I think.”

“Oh, but I do,” Voldemort grinned, and Harry tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Voldemort was a lot like Vernon: apparently all Harry had to do to make him happy for the moment was to remind him that he was stronger, older, or more superior than Harry in some way. Not too long ago, he’d have added Snape to that list, but now- No. He’d save thoughts about his Potions professor for later. Right now, he needed to focus on surviving Voldemort.

“You see, you are the Boy Who Lived.” Voldemort bent down to look him in the face. “The beacon of the Light. The darling of Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s prized trophy. Not to mention…” He grasped Harry’s chin, and Harry flinched from the familiar flare of pain in his already raw scar. “The key to my power.” He frowned in thought. “Logically, that would make you the key to my victory as well. And yet the prophecy claims that of the servant of two masters. And so _Severus_ is to determine the victor?” He gave humorless laugh. “I think not.”

He tossed Harry’s chin to the side and rose to his feet. “Nonetheless, prophecies must not be ignored. If Severus is destined to play such a role, and if it is not to be in _my_ service, then he will simply have to die.”

Harry shivered. Voldemort sounded as though he were discussing the death of a pesky rodent. It must be done, and then he would carry on with his day. Harry wished he knew how Snape was taking this, but the hands on Harry’s shoulders were still. They held him in place with a quiet strength, but they told him nothing of what was going on in the man’s head.

Snape, ever the good spy. He sighed inwardly, wanting to talk to his teacher more than ever. He shifted, making to try to get up, just to feel the hands move. They held him down, preventing him from standing. The hands gave his shoulders a small squeeze, and Harry stilled. That was enough to reassure himself that Snape was there with him. Just one squeeze. That’s all he had needed to feel a little bit more in control of the situation.

He reached into his pocket and was relieved to find his mum’s heart-shaped stone still there. He traced the smooth surface, finding comfort in the thought of his mum having picked it out and held it in her hands. It was as much a gift from his mother as from Snape, and it helped him to find the courage he’d been afraid he’d lost.

He hadn’t been broken yet. He lifted his chin. “I think that you’ll lose,” he answered the wizard’s question, trying to ignore how his hoarse voice ruined the effect he’d gone for. “ _What I think_ is that it refers to Professor Snape, and that he’s chosen his side. I think that you’ve already been beaten, you just don’t know it yet.”

“Oh?” asked Voldemort conversationally, though his eyes betrayed his hatred for Harry. “It does not appear that way from my vantage point.” He smirked at Harry’s shaking, tired body, forcibly kneeling before him, and his Death Eaters laughed.

“You look just as much a coward as ever from _my_ vantage point,” Harry shot back. The hands on his shoulders squeezed slightly, probably Snape’s way of saying to tone it down, but Harry was about as good as he ever was at following orders…which wasn’t very good at all. Still, when he found himself looking cross-eyed at Voldemort’s wand pointing between his eyes, he had to concede that incorporating more Slytherin subtleties into his approach might not be the worst idea.

“You know nothing of true strength, boy,” Voldemort hissed. “Power is strength, and I am currently the most powerful wizard on earth. My power will only grow, and your pathetic Order will crumble under the weight of my successes.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry refuted, tossing the idea of subtlety out the window. He could try it out another time. “ _Love_ is strength. So is hope and courage. You don’t have any of those, which is why you will fail.”

Voldemort laughed, and his pathetic sycophants followed suit an instant later. “What noble ideas you have. Love never toppled nations, boy. That takes power.” He lowered his wand, dangling it at his side.

Harry begged to differ. There were lots of stories about love starting wars and ending them…but that was a bit more poetic than he was going for. He settled for insisting, “Love, hope, and courage _are_ powerful.”

“And do you believe that your dear professor possesses all three?” Voldemort asked in mock innocence, then smirked in obvious derision, and the Death Eaters laughed again. “I will concede the courage. Even traitorous actions can require courage. Perhaps even the hope. I don’t care,” Voldemort waved off. “But love? Severus never had time for such trivialities as love. It was one of his greatest assets while in my service.”

Harry forced himself to stay still, though he wanted to squirm in discomfort. He wasn’t sure how they’d worked their way to talking about Snape and whether he had love in his life, but he kind of wished they hadn’t. He hadn’t given too much thought to it, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss something so personal in front of the man himself.

“He did express desire for one woman, I recall,” Voldemort looked at him as if he held a delightful secret, and Harry decided by the slight tremor in Snape’s hands that there was a story there. “But it was a passing fancy. No, Severus has never known romantic love. Brotherly love, perhaps? No. He turned on his fellows easily enough to discount that.”

Voldemort leaned down and ran a finger down Harry’s cheek, making him shudder. “Did you imagine that he felt love for you? He never had a child of his own, after all. Perhaps his latent paternal instincts have finally kicked in.” For some reason, Voldemort and his Death Eaters found that suggestion highly amusing. Their laughter rang through the clearing for a full minute. And…okay, well, yeah, Snape wasn’t exactly a _paternal_ type of person, so Harry figured he could understand why.

He decided addressing anything about Snape and love was too much like walking through a minefield, so he snapped, “You’ll have to ask _him_ about all that. _I’m_ not the one here with the annoying habit of Legilimizing people for every little piece of information.” He felt a pang of guilt despite himself, for he _was_ in the habit of listening in on them, and was that much better..?

“I believe I shall,” Voldemort answered with a smile and drew something small and silver from his pocket. It took a few seconds for Harry to recognize Snape’s ring. Before he could wonder why the wizard was holding it out as if it were a valuable prize, Voldemort was talking again. “Did you know that every wizard has a specific magical signature? It is subtle, but if one knows what to look for, that knowledge can be quite illuminating. I recognized Severus’s magical signature within his ring immediately.”

He rubbed the ring between his fingers. “I wonder if he would answer your call. Does he care enough to come to you in your hour of need, or will he leave you to suffer your fate?”

Harry didn’t answer. What, was he going to be made to use the ring to call Snape to them? It obviously wouldn’t work, as Snape was standing right behind him. Even if that weren’t the case, it was a stupid plan on Voldemort’s part. Snape would be smarter than to Apparate straight into a trap, at least without backup.

“My eyes have been opened to the possibilities of magic, Harry Potter.” Voldemort knelt before Harry and, smiling his evil smile, looked him in the eyes. “The power you have graced me with has brought the world into new focus. The rules of magic are mine to be molded to my will.”

Harry frowned. His heart thumped at the absolute _certainty_ in Voldemort’s voice. Just how powerful _was_ he now?

“I can see it,” Voldemort continued, his eyes filled with a maniacal gleam. “I can see magic. I can feel it, touch it. It is in the air around us, in every particle of air, every breath we breathe. It surrounds us, and I am one with it as I never have been before. _I am magic_.”

Harry couldn’t stop his eyes from widening at that claim. Voldemort was insane, he truly was.

Voldemort held out the ring. When Harry hesitated, the wizard grabbed his hand with his cold, long fingers and forced the ring into Harry’s fist. “Severus manipulated the magic within this ring to only respond to you. You are going to activate it. Call him to us. This clearing will allow him access…and only him. Let us see if he is courageous enough to face those he has betrayed.”

Harry shook his head before Voldemort had finished speaking. “He won’t come. You know he won’t. He’s too smart for that.”

“We shall see,” said Voldemort as he stood. “I have known Severus since before you were born, boy. He has an annoying but useful habit of rising to every challenge I place before him.”

He raised his chin in a silent refusal, and Voldemort calmly pointed his wand at him. Harry hesitated. His body couldn’t handle another Cruciatus Curse, he knew it. He was drained, body and soul. He uncurled his fingers and looked down at the ring on his palm. Maybe…maybe it wouldn’t hurt anything to do as Voldemort asked. Snape knew what they were doing, after all. No harm would come from activating the ring.

On the other hand, Harry loathed giving in to Voldemort in any way. Coming to a quick decision, he abruptly drew back his arm and let the ring fly as far into the meadow as he could fling it. He only then remembered that the ring had belonged to Snape’s family and sent up a quick prayer that Snape would forgive him for this later.

Before the ring could disappear into the grass, it stopped in midair and flew back to Voldemort’s waiting hand. The wizard looked at Harry with a look of disgust before tossing the ring in Harry’s direction.

Harry ducked, but it turned out that Crabbe was the intended recipient. Before Harry knew what was happening, Snape had one arm wrenched behind his back and he felt the ring slip onto his finger. He gasped at the sudden movement and the resulting discomfort in his sore shoulder. Snape held him at an awkward angle as Voldemort stood intimidatingly in front of him.

“Use it,” he ordered.

“No.”

Voldemort put his wand to Harry’s head, directly on top of his scar, and pressed it into his flesh. Harry yelped at a stab of white-hot pain and tried to move away but he couldn’t go anywhere at this angle. He fought against Snape’s hold but it was too strong.

“Use it,” repeated Voldemort, and Harry glared up at him. He was so sick of this, sick and tired of being hunted and captured and used as a punching bag and a blood bag and an outlet for evil wizards to work out their anger management issues on. Why was it _his_ fault that Voldemort had gone out in a green haze when Harry had been an infant? It’s not like he’d done anything; he’d still been in nappies, for Merlin’s sake! Why did his whole life - and probably his death - have to revolve around an evil power-hungry wizard who lived to torture him and kill anyone he’d ever cared about? It _wasn’t fair!_ His blood was near boiling from the surge of anger coursing through him.

Voldemort sneered down at him. “Your pathetic attempt at _courage_ will not help you now, Potter,” he mocked and send the slightest charge of magic through his wand right into Harry’s flaming scar. He shuddered and cried out at the wave of burning heat that flowed through his scar and head and down his spine. His body spasmed and he immediately tried to straighten up, to bring it under control.

On instinct, Harry used all of his energy to wrench one hand from Snape’s grasp and grab hold of the end of Voldemort’s wand that was jabbing at him. He couldn’t explain what happened next. One moment he was seizing the wand with nothing but rage on his mind, meeting Voldemort’s surprised but angry eyes, and the next, he was looking down at himself.

The boy’s eyes were rolling back, his body going limp as Crabbe deftly caught him before he could hit the ground. The Death Eater held him against himself, both arms encasing the boy to hold him upright. He looked dutifully to his master for directions.

Voldemort sneered down at the boy and wiped his wand as if erasing the filth of the boy’s touch from its point.

Without warning, he staggered back as if dealt a physical blow, feeling the weight of something increasingly familiar pressing in on his magic. Rage and confusion as one ran through him, and he used them to drown out a familiar tinge of fear. He didn’t understand this strange power that the boy wielded, the effect that only he could have on him time after time, as if a mere _child_ could weaken him, cause him to doubt his abilities-

He teetered, barely stopping himself from falling, and felt another fissure form in his newfound fortress of power. He was reminded of the humiliation the boy had already put him through, and he narrowed his eyes into slits at the unconscious boy at his feet. He needed to do away with him, put him away where he’d never escape, never again make him, Voldemort, feel weak.

He needed to ensure that he never escaped.

Ever.

Because he was beginning to doubt his presupposition that this boy held no power over him, and he loathed having to doubt himself. He was Lord Voldemort, most powerful wizard in the universe, and no child was going to best him with parlor tricks and mind games. No child was going to destroy his chance at power. No child-

Harry took a gasping breath and opened his eyes. He blinked and took a few deep breaths in a row until he registered that he was looking up at Voldemort, not down at himself. He felt claustrophobic all of a sudden, arms holding him tightly against someone’s body, as if in a straitjacket. He began to struggle. He needed to get away, needed to move and to breathe. The arms loosened their hold from his chest but would not let go completely. They grasped his arms on either side, forcing him to stay put. He felt the slow rise and fall of the chest behind him, slow breathing…in…out… Snape. Telling him to breathe. Right. He got the message, taking slow shaky breaths through his aching throat and into his aching chest. He stopped struggling, but that only gave his brain time to dwell on what he’d glimpsed in Voldemort’s mind.

Voldemort feared him. That much he might have guessed after their Legilimency episodes, but it was reassuring to know for sure. Somehow he was able to get to Voldemort, both mentally and physically…and magically? He didn’t know how, but he knew that it was happening. It was enough to bolster his courage, at least for the moment.

He didn’t have long to dwell on it. Voldemort’s wand was on him again. His face was pale, his eyes wide with manic rage. “Use it!” he screamed.

Harry almost refused again, but he found his voice cut off by a nudge of his arm from behind. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Snape was telling him to activate the ring. He drew in a breath, hesitating long enough to concede that if Snape thought he should give in, he should probably get on with it then. He slowly drew his hand in front of his body, his upper arm still held to his side by Snape, and moved his thumb to the ring.

He counted to three with his thumb pressed to the band…and then the most wonderful feeling of warm magic pulsed through him. He basked in it, feeling protected and calmed. He sighed at the safety that enveloped him. The ring hadn’t felt like this before, had it? It had warmed, but now…now, it was like the magic was _alive_ , like it spoke to his body and communed with his soul. He looked up, needing to know if he was the only one to feel the ring’s power…

He gasped. He could see it! _Magic._ He knew that’s what it was, just as Voldemort had described. It filled the air like an electrical charge. He smelled magic like he smelled sunshine and the rain-soaked earth, saw the sparks of magic rising from the earth, surrounding them, enveloping them in an all-encompassing power ready and waiting to be harnessed to a wizard’s will. Harry reached out, sure that he could make those sparks of magic do whatever he wanted them to do. They gathered, merged around his hand, and he smiled with delight so pure that he nearly forgot his dire circumstances. He looked up, certain that the Death Eaters would be either fearful or fascinated by what he saw, but most of them weren’t looking at him. They didn’t appear particularly impressed with anything, as a matter of fact. They watched their master, waited for something to happen, for the traitor to perhaps Apparate into their midst.

He looked to Voldemort, but the wizard was staring at Harry, his eyes filling with a dawning realization and a blinding, fervent hatred. No - no, he was staring _beyond_ Harry.

He tried to turn, to crane his neck, and that’s when he saw it. Tendrils of warm, golden magic, apparently invisible to all but Voldemort and Harry, flowed outward from the ring, mingled with the air, and converged behind Harry onto the body of Crabbe.

And Harry knew with mounting dread and horror that Severus Snape had been found out.


	42. Traitor

Harry saw the realization in Snape’s eyes a split second before the man’s hands were ripped from Harry’s shoulders by a violent curse. Harry didn’t even pay attention to what curse Voldemort had used, so horrified was he by the turn of events. Snape wasn’t supposed to be found out! He was supposed to have a plan, to be biding his time until he could get them both out of there. Instead, he was flying through the air and landing with a painful grunt as Voldemort lobbed another curse his way, this one causing his body to spasm.

The shock in the clearing was palpable. The Death Eaters obviously didn’t know why Voldemort had attacked one of their own, but none of them raised an objection. Despite the shock and unease in the clearing, they stood still, waiting for Voldemort to direct them to do otherwise.

After the initial horror wore off, Harry shakily got to his feet and took a few steps toward Snape before his shot nerves caused him to stumble back to the ground. But he was bolstered by the fact that he didn’t feel as terrible as he had earlier. He didn’t know what he could do, outnumbered and without a wand, but he couldn’t sit on the sidelines while his would-be rescuer was tortured and maybe even killed. He started to get back to his feet, as nobody’s attention was on him anymore. Well…almost nobody.

He looked up to see two Death Eaters’ eyes on him. Bellatrix Lestrange’s gaze shifted back and forth between Voldemort’s attack and Harry. Her rapidly changing facial expressions told him that she was warring between delight at Voldemort’s surprise actions and wariness at whatever Harry was doing…maybe just wariness of him in general. He was gratified to see the unease on her face. He must have scared her with his impromptu Legilimency. She wouldn’t be straying too close to him in the near future.

Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, was watching him with cool composure, betraying a casual, almost unconcerned, curiosity. It was as if Voldemort’s sudden attack on Crabbe held little interest to him. As if he wasn’t even surprised. Harry stopped his movements, trying to gauge what threat the man posed to him.

A muffled scream tore through the meadow, and Harry bit his lip to stop himself from crying out at the sight of Crabbe’s body writhing on the ground. It did help that the man looked like Crabbe, not Snape. It allowed him to put up a wall - if only a small one - around his emotions and _think_. Voldemort’s attention wasn’t on him. Most of the Death Eaters were watching Voldemort. Harry couldn’t do much, but if he was going to do anything, now was the time. But…what could he _do_?

As if in answer to his question, a warm, golden spark of magic wafted up from the ground. Harry acted on instinct. He focused in on that spark, tried to block out all else and immerse himself in the feeling of living magic. He reached out his hand, and…yes, there they were. More sparks joined the first, and he felt energy slowly building up inside and around him. He grinned as he knew somehow that he could pull up more power than he’d ever imagined possible, and he could direct all of that power toward Voldemort, and then-

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

His body went stiff, his arms crashing to his sides, and his body twisted so that he lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky. No. No no no no! He tried to harness the sparks of magic again, despite his predicament, and he was gratified to feel some of that power slowly continue to build. Could he find and use enough power to break the body bind? Was it possible? If so, then he could-

Lucius Malfoy’s face swam above him. The man stooped to kneel next to him. “Whatever you are planning in that head of yours, boy,” he warned quietly, “it would be ill advised.”

Harry managed to narrow his eyes at the man, but that was as far as he could get in counteracting the body bind. The feeling of power was dissipating. He didn’t know how to keep hold of the magic. He wanted to cry in frustration, then scream and kick a few more Death Eaters. With effort, he managed the slightest wrinkling of his nose to convey his disgust. The senior Malfoy was definitely next on his shin-kicking hit list.

He was forced to lie there with Malfoy as his guard while Snape’s muffled screams rent the air. Harry felt real respect for his professor in that moment. He knew how much pain Snape must be in, and yet the man refused to bend his will to his attacker’s. He did not beg for mercy or cry or scream in terror. No, his only sounds were the sounds of a man in so much pain that, despite all efforts, he physically could not contain the sounds of his agony.

“You thought that you could hide from me in plain sight, Severus?” Voldemort finally stopped long enough to speak, and though Harry couldn’t see most of them, he heard the rustling movement and surprised murmuring of Death Eaters. “So _gallant_ , braving my wrath to rescue your little pet.”

 _No no no no no._ Harry caught at the rising panic and forced it down. Drawing upon the Occlumency that Snape had taught him, he erected a wall of forced calm and pushed the panic behind it. It wouldn’t help either of them for him to panic, he knew. Nothing good would come of it. He needed to keep a clear head. Eventually the body bind would be released, and he needed to be ready to defend himself and to defend Snape.

It helped to think of how affronted Snape would be at Harry’s thought to defend the older and more experienced wizard. He’d give Harry the look that meant he was a blithering idiot, and he might even say so out loud, and then he would mock him for even thinking that he had the aptitude to help Snape, or that Snape would actually need his help, and he might also give him a lecture about rushing headlong into danger instead of _using his head_ , and… Yes, thinking about Snape being _Snape_ was going a long way toward helping him to calm down.

Then it was silent. Harry couldn’t see what Voldemort was doing, but he heard movements to the side. The shuffling of Death Eater feet. A sound as if Voldemort were shifting or maybe kneeling. And Voldemort’s low murmur, “How long until it wears off, Severus? I do so long to see your face again.”

Snape didn’t respond. Harry didn’t know if it was because the man couldn’t or wouldn’t. He tried again to break the body bind but gave up in frustration.

“Fortunately, we have an entire day to become reacquainted,” said Voldemort with forced flippancy. He called louder, “We return to the manor. Malfoy, bring the boy. Nott, Sallow, bring the traitor. Put them in the cell. We will continue this when I can look upon Severus Snape’s own face. It will be _so_ much more fun to see the agony in his very own features.”

Harry didn’t like the feeling of being Apparated away while in a body bind. His entire body felt ill, but he couldn’t move or do anything about it. And then just as he was beginning to feel grateful that he wouldn’t be able to sick up like this, he was released. He ignored his churning stomach to immediately rise into a crouch. They were still outside, but they appeared to be in some sort of overgrown garden, the kind that might be attached to an abandoned manor house. Malfoy didn’t give him time to do anything else before tugging him up by the arm and forcing him forward and into a large stone building. Despite his awkward stumbles, the Death Eater didn’t slow for him.

In no time at all, he was thrown back into his cell. Only, this time, Snape was thrown in right after him, the man catching himself before his head could connect with the ground.

The door was shut, and they were thrust into darkness with the loud click of a lock.

Harry carefully sat against the wall, waiting for the professor to speak. He must have a backup plan, some way of getting them out of here. He was _Snape_. Master spy, head Slytherin, calculated to a fault. If anyone could do it, he could.

He heard the sounds of Snape settling himself against the opposite wall. The room was too small to allow for much space, so Harry held his legs to his chest to give the man room to spread out.

He cleared his throat in the silence, and unable to stand it any longer, finally asked, “So what’s the plan? I mean, I guess the backup plan. I assume that wasn’t supposed to happen. Or…or was it? Was that part of your plan? Did you know the ring would do that?” Which reminded him… “Did you see the magic too? Or just me and Vol- You-Know-Who? What _was_ that? And how come-”

“Potter.” The hoarse word stopped his babbling, and he spared a thought for how much stranger it was hearing Crabbe’s voice in the darkness, without the visual cues that Snape was in there. He didn’t like not seeing his face. He wanted to know if he was okay, and what he was thinking, and Snape was too good a spy to betray it by his voice alone.

“At least your spirit hasn’t been broken,” the voice said dryly. “That is something, I suppose.”

“You do have a plan, right?” he asked into the darkness.

“More or less,” Snape said shortly, which was far from comforting.

Harry nervously tapped his fingers on his leg. “Which is it…a ‘more’ plan or a ‘less’ plan?”

Snape sighed. “There are no perfect scenarios where the Dark Lord is concerned. I knew that when I came here. There was always a strong possibility I would be found out, particularly when he found the ring. It limits our options but does not deplete them.”

“So…we do have options..?”

“Yes.”

Harry waited for an explanation but was met with more silence. “Okay. Yeah. Great talk.” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling even though Snape couldn’t see.

“Telling you any more about a possible route out of here would not be prudent. Or did you forget that the Dark Lord has developed a penchant for looking into your mind?”

“If you’re worried about that, why did you tell me who you were?”

Snape paused, then admitted, “I took a calculated risk. He was unlikely to try again after what happened during his previous two attempts, and as admirable as your efforts to prove your mettle were, it was imperative that you felt safe enough to stop poking the lions with a stick.”

Harry went on the defensive. “It’s not like I had a lot of options, you know. I had to fight back somehow, and I-”

“I was not criticizing,” Snape interrupted. “Quite the contrary.”

“Oh.” That took him aback, because he was pretty sure that in Snape-speak, that was a compliment.

Snape didn’t let him dwell on it. “We may not have long. The Dark Lord intends to perform a ceremony of sorts on the full moon, which is tomorrow. When that happens-”

“Tomorrow? No. No, Malfoy said I had three days.” It hadn’t been three days already, had it?

“When did Malfoy speak with you?” Snape asked sharply.

“Um…soon after I was taken. He came here the first day, I think. Or the second. I might have lost some time? I dunno. But it can’t have been more than a day since he told me that, can it?”

“You were taken three days ago. Today is the twenty-seventh of August.”

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. It felt scary to have been trapped in this place for so long that he didn’t even know what day it was.

“Did Malfoy say anything else?”

Harry shook his head before he remembered that Snape couldn’t see him. “No. Um, he just wanted to give me a hard time about what You-Know-Who had in store for me. And about you. You know, mock me for trusting you, or try to talk me out of it, something like that.”

“Ah.”

“It didn’t work,” he felt the need to add.

“I didn’t ask if it did.”

“I know. Just saying.”

“Tomorrow,” Snape said, getting back on track, “you have nothing to fear. The Dark Lord will try again to break you, and he may harm you superficially or psychologically, but he will not take it too far. You are most valuable to him alive and well. Do not forget that.”

“I won’t,” Harry said softly. He didn’t say more, for fear that his voice would break. Just the thought of what was in store for him - for them - made his heart pound.

“If something happens to me, don’t try to do anything idiotic.”

Harry’s heart pounded harder. “He’s planning to kill you, isn’t he?” he whispered.

“Undoubtedly.”

“But you have a plan,” he prodded.

Snape hesitated, and that did _not_ help Harry’s heart. When he spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words with care. “It is…possible that my contingency plan may not come through in time to spare me a less than desirable fate. Should I die-”

“ _What?_ ” Harry squeaked. “You said you had a plan! So do whatever the plan is _now_!”

Snape huffed - actually huffed, as if Harry didn’t have a right to be upset here. “There are still possible routes out of here, yes. The best and most immediate route unfortunately depends upon something outside my control at the moment. We must plan for contingencies, and my death is a very real and possible one.”

“No.”

“Potter. As touching as your sentiment is, one cannot wish away one’s fate by means of denial.”

“How can you be so _calm_ about it? You’re sitting there discussing your death like you’d talk about a bloody potion!”

“I _do_ take my potions very seriously,” answered Snape, and Harry stared into the darkness.

“Was that a joke?”

“I _do_ know how to joke.” Snape sounded almost offended.

Harry let the silence speak to his skepticism.

“The point,” Snape clipped, “is that you need to keep your head. No matter what happens, even if all hope seems lost, you must remember that there are people out there who will not allow you to die. It may take time to get you out, but you will _not_ die here.”

“I don’t want you to die either,” Harry admitted quietly, only able to do so because of the darkness between them.

Snape sighed. “If I do, it will not be your fault.”

“I don’t want you to die even if it’s not my fault.” It was easier to say that time. He wondered if he’d rendered Snape speechless, which was kind of sad as it wasn’t a very sentimental thing to say, all things considered. He wondered if anyone else had ever told Severus Snape that they cared whether he lived or died. Maybe Dumbledore or Kneader?

Harry broke the silence. “We’ve got a full day, right? So we figure out a way to get out of here so that doesn’t happen. Between the two of us-”

“We can what?” Snape broke in. “Storm the castle? Take out every Death Eater from here to the Apparition boundary? There are quite a few, I assure you. The Dark Lord has no doubt doubled the guard now that I am here. We are both wandless, you can barely stand, and I am too tired to last long in a fight. But by all means, let’s begin. First things first: do you know how to pick a lock?”

“No,” he admitted in a low voice, choosing to ignore all the sarcasm directed his way. “I tried to learn once, to get out of my room at the Dursleys, but I was pants at it.”

“Then I propose a different plan. We wait. I attempt to hammer into your thick skull that the most important thing you can do is to survive with all of your limbs in tact. And then you do just that.”

Harry rested his head on his drawn-up knees. He couldn’t stave off a feeling of guilt. Despite the professor’s words, it _would_ be his fault if Snape died. He was cursed. Or rather, any adult who got even halfway close to him was cursed. His parents had died hiding him, Sirius had died trying to save him, Mrs. Figg had died protecting him, and now Snape was about to die after trying to rescue him. Despair seeped into his heart at the thought of it happening again. Certainly, his relationship with Snape was rocky at best, but the man had been there for Harry in his own way, and Harry had started to depend on him, and the thought of him dying here hurt far more than he would ever admit to.

“When you get out of here,” Snape went on, “tell the headmaster all that happened, in as much detail as you remember. Do not leave anything out about the Dark Lord’s forays into your mind or the outcomes. You’ve no doubt ascertained that whatever is occurring between your minds is unusual, even in the context of your usual unusual connection. He will help you to figure it out and to sift through the ramifications.”

“Did you see the sparks?” He’d much rather talk about that strange phenomenon than let Snape continue talking as if he were already dead.

“What sparks?” The confusion was evident in his voice.

That was a no then. Harry sighed. It hadn’t appeared that anyone but he and Voldemort had seen them, but he’d hoped… “In the clearing. Remember how You-Know-Who said he could see magic? I thought he was crazy, but then I saw it too. It was all around us. It was like…” He faltered, trying to figure out how to explain something so ethereal, so beyond explanation. “Like how we can’t see the wind, but we know it’s there because we feel it, and it moves branches and leaves? But then imagine that suddenly you can see it. You know what it looks like and where it’s coming from and what it’s doing and where it’s going because you can see _it_ , not just what it does, and it’s _beautiful_.” He bit his lip on his urge to wax poetic. There was just something about his experience in that clearing that affected him to his soul. He would always remember that feeling. “And then I saw the magic flow from the ring to you, like a physical connection, and that’s how he knew you were you. But I don’t think anybody saw it except me and him.”

Snape was silent, and Harry let him be because he could hear fingers tapping on the stone floor. That was one of Snape’s tells. He was deep in thought, and there was no sense interrupting him until he’d finished. When he did speak, it was only to mutter, “fascinating.”

But Harry’s mind had moved on, and his heart was beating fast again. “Professor!” he pleaded. “You _have_ to get out of here. Ron! He can’t wait for me to get rescued _someday_. He needs help right now!”

“Kneader is still doing what he can for your friend.”

“No, I know that, but I mean that I know what they did to him. The Dual Curse! So you need to get out of here so you can tell Kneader, and then together you can come up with a way to save him.”

“How do you know what they did?”

“I Legilimized Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“You Leg…” Snape’s voice trailed off, then regained its strength. “I thought as much, when you attacked her. But it was accidental magic. You’ve never been trained in Legilimency. There is no way you would have been able to direct it in order to find precisely what you needed. And in so short a time, not to mention without her consciously pulling up the memory. That takes a great deal of talent and control, as well as raw power.”

“I don’t know _how_ I did it. I just know that I did.”

“It is impossible,” Snape insisted again.

“Apparently it’s not, because I did it,” Harry insisted right back.

“Then pray tell, what curses did she use?” The challenge in his voice was clear.

“She combined a really simple sleeping hex - _somnium_ \- with something I’ve never heard before. _Tactus venandi_ , it sounded like? They bound that one to me in some way, that part I don’t know how they did, but the first time I touched Ron, it triggered it to start tracking him or something. Oh, and apparently the sleeping hex is weak on its own, but binding the two together made it stronger or something, also undetectable. Again, I don’t know how. I got the feeling it’s a bit beyond a Fifth Year Charms level. But it gave them time to track headquarters, since Ron had to stay alive and under the spells for it to work, and it took them a while to get as far as they did.”

After a few seconds, Snape said incredulously, “You gathered all of that from one unplanned seconds-long field trip into Bellatrix Lestrange’s mind?”

Harry felt vindicated at the obvious disbelief in Snape’s voice and answered a simple, “Yes.”

“Be sure to tell the headmaster about that too.”

“What!” Harry threw his hands in the air, wishing Snape could see the visual demonstration of how frustrated he was. “No, it can’t wait that long. Ron might get weaker, and it might be too late if we wait. You have to get out of here, and you have to tell Kneader or Dumbledore or Pomfrey or I don’t care who.”

“Potter,” the voice said tiredly, and Harry almost felt bad at arguing when it was obvious how exhausted the man was. “Tell you what. You try your hand at lock-picking again and wake me when you’ve mastered the skill. Then we’ll move on to a discussion of your mastery of martial arts and wandless magic. _Then_ we can craft a plan.”

He really wished he could glare at Snape, even though he knew the man was perfectly right. Merlin, his voice could be so _condescending_ sometimes, so-

He sat up straight. “Hey! You’re you again! Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Snape in his own voice. His own very tired voice. “We should both rest. We probably have a long night and day ahead of us.”

Harry wanted to harrumph and to argue some more now that he actually had Snape here to argue with, but he knew rest was the most sensible thing to do. Wordlessly, he curled up on the floor with his back pressed to the wall and closed his eyes. Snape’s soft snores filled the room before long, but Harry couldn’t shut off his brain. His thoughts ranged from full moon ceremonies to Ron to Death Eaters to his strange but sporadic new powers. It took far too long to drift into a fitful sleep, but eventually he did.

* * *

The next time he came into awareness, there was no slow awakening. He was asleep and then in the next instant, he was awake. He knew immediately where he was, this room and the days of being Voldemort’s prisoner quickly becoming his new normal. Eyes closed, he felt the stone beneath his cheek and smelled the stale, musty air of an underground room in an old building. He knew he wasn’t alone by the light on the other side of his eyelids and the sound of the shuffling of feet.

Nobody spoke, and Harry didn’t know if somebody had woken him up or if he had done it on his own. Either way, he wasn’t going to hurry anything along. He’d lie here all day pretending to be unconscious if it would allow his body the time it needed to rest. It worked for several minutes, until he was startled from his rest by a vicious kick to his side.

Groaning, he clutched at the sharp pain in his side and curled up into a ball.

His attacker wasn’t having that. He was dragged to his feet and out of the cell by a pair of hands with thin pointy fingers that dug painfully into his arms. He twisted, trying both to see who had him and to try to get away, but all he could manage was a glimpse of brown hair and an unfamiliar face before he was shoved forward. He barely managed not to fall flat on his face. He stumbled, but he miraculously remained on his feet. His legs were shaky from the effort but strong enough for him to be marched upstairs without falling.

“Good morning, Harry,” Voldemort said pleasantly when he entered the large room. He stood next to his makeshift throne and casually dangled a wand in his hands. “Or rather, good evening. Our last evening together before your big day, in fact. Just imagine…in so short a time, you will be released from your mortal pain and I will be released from my mortal limitations. It will be a fine night for both of us, will it not?”

Harry almost bit out something about Voldemort’s insanity, but then he saw two Death Eaters dragging Snape into the room behind him. The man looked tired but alert, and he was himself, large hooked nose and all. As Harry watched, the men forced Snape to his knees next to him. One bound his arms behind his back with the wave of a wand. Nobody forced Harry to kneel or tried to bind him, so he remained where he was, locking his knees to stay on his feet.

He glanced over and saw Snape’s intelligent eyes scan the room out of a neutral expression. Despite being visibly tired, the man didn’t look like he had been tortured earlier, but Harry knew Snape well enough by now to know that he would hide his pain behind a mask of stoicism for as long as he could get away with it.

“I have a gift for you, Harry Potter,” said Voldemort with a tight smile as he gestured to someone behind Harry. In the next instant, he felt himself being shoved forward so that he stood before Voldemort..

“I had thought to save the traitor’s death for tomorrow,” continued Voldemort. “I do so love the poetry of taking his life while I gain a new lease on mine. However,” he took a deep breath as if preparing to make a particularly selfless sacrifice, “I shall allow you to do the honors, if you wish.”

It was silent for several seconds as Harry tried to make sense of those words and then that they were directed at him. He was sure his confusion must show on his face, but he didn’t really care. What was the psychopath talking about? Was he…was he actually asking Harry if he wanted to _kill Snape_? The wizard _had_ gone off the deep end.

And then Voldemort did something else unexpected - he held out a wand by the tip, offering it to Harry.

Harry just stood there, certain this had to be a trap of some sort. Or a ridiculous game. A really, really weird, twisted game. He wanted to seek out Snape’s eyes for some sort of direction or understanding of the situation, but that would involve turning his back on Voldemort.

“The wand is perfectly safe, I assure you,” soothed Voldemort. “It is your own professor’s wand. I procured it earlier this summer, when I discovered his treachery. You see, as I have said, I do love poetry. And I can think of nothing more poetic than watching the traitor be killed by his own wand, and by the very figurehead of the side he left me for. Yes. Yes, it will be a quite satisfying end indeed.” He smiled - the snake-like man actually _smiled_.

Harry licked his lips, trying to make sense of it all. “How about- how about I kill _you_ with it?” he said feebly, trying to sound insolent but probably failing miserably.

Voldemort’s smile didn’t waver. “I have taken precautions, I assure you. At the present time, this wand will only work against its owner. Should you attempt to use it to escape or to curse myself or my men, not only will it not work, you may find yourself without a few fingers. But attempt it if you wish.” He held the wand even closer to Harry.

Harry shook his head, his brain finally starting to catch up to the crazy situation. “What in Merlin’s name would make you think I would kill _anyone_ , much less one of my own professors? I’m not one of your sycophants, here to do your dirty work for you.” This whole conversation was so bizarre, the way Voldemort thought Harry would be willing - much more, _happy_ \- to do… _that_. He didn’t want to kill anyone. Well…except Voldemort. And Bellatrix. And he wouldn’t feel at all bad if Wormtail were to join them…

Okay, so maybe he did have a few deep, dark murderous thoughts. But even with his sworn enemies, he doubted whether he’d have the ability to go through with it if given the chance to actually kill. It made his hands sweat just thinking about it…even if someday he’d have to be the one to kill Voldemort…

“Take it,” said Voldemort, his pleasant tone giving way to a steely order. Unsure what was going on and knowing he’d be forced to take it anyway, Harry did.

Longer and darker than his own wand, it felt off balance and heavy in Harry’s hand. He looked it over and felt the ridges on its handle, allowing his curiosity about Snape’s wand to briefly distract him from the strange situation he found himself in. What was going to happen now? Crazy Tom was going to walk him over to Snape and demand that he _Avada Kedavra_ him into oblivion? Torture Harry or Snape if he didn’t comply? It was going to be a long night of torture in that case. Like everybody, Harry had a breaking point, but he’d never have a breaking point for _murder_. Especially not the murder of someone he trusted, someone who was only here because he’d been trying to save Harry, someone who had taught him and protected him and given him tools to fight off the bad guys. Someone he didn’t want to die. This was going to be one endless night of a painful standoff if Voldemort was mad enough to be serious.

He considered using the wand to attempt an escape, despite Voldemort’s warning, but he decided against it. Not only was he partial to his fingers, he’d never defeat all of the Death Eaters in this room on his own, even if the wand did work on them. Anyway, even if escape were possible, he wouldn’t abandon Snape to their mercies.

He realized that it was quiet, that Voldemort was watching him with ill-concealed glee, and it was all he could do to not shuffle nervously under the attention. Voldemort had completely thrown him with this strange game, and the wizard knew it. Harry couldn’t even think up a good insult.

“I see that you require incentive.” Voldemort walked over to Snape, and Harry turned around so that he could finally see his professor. The man’s expression was still the picture of closed-off neutrality, and Harry wished they could talk privately again. Snape knew Voldemort better than Harry did. He could at least give Harry a hint at what the game was, what the whole point of this was. Snape’s eyes met his briefly and then darted away, and Harry took a small step back. He knew he hadn’t imagined the flicker of fear in those dark eyes. He might have missed it before this summer, but he’d come to know his professor’s expressions pretty well over the past month. Snape had at least an idea of what was going on, and he was afraid. Harry decided that meant he probably should be too.

“It appears that young Harry is too noble to seek revenge, Severus. I _have_ heard your treatment of him over the years, you know. Detentions and insults and unconcealed loathing…on both sides, I gather. How unfortunate that you have managed to gain the boy’s affections just as it would best suit me for him to continue to hate you.” Voldemort tsked in fake disappointment. “Unfortunate, indeed. Ah, well.” He knelt next to the stoic Snape and murmured, “We shall simply have to rectify that, shan’t we?”

As unresponsive as Snape was, Harry couldn’t miss the man’s slight flinch. From Voldemort’s widening smile as he rose to his feet, he had likewise seen it. Harry felt a sinking in his stomach. His instincts were screaming at him to run or to shut Voldemort up or- or something. Voldemort _was_ playing a game, but it wasn’t random. This was all a set up for something that Snape did not want to happen, and Harry had no idea what, but if Snape was visibly disturbed by it, if he couldn’t even look at Harry right now, then Harry wanted no part in it.

He threw the wand on the floor even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good if Voldemort wanted him to have it. “No more games, _Tom_ ,” he snapped, his anger returning and giving him the courage that had left him in the midst of his confusion. He was gratified to hear a few gasps at his show of disrespect. “I want no part in this. If you want to do something, go ahead. Just don’t expect me to play along.”

His words didn’t have the effect he’d hoped for. Rather than appearing angry or irritated, Voldemort smiled and calmly waved his own wand at Snape’s so that it flew to Harry’s hand once more. But this time, when he instinctively caught it - it was either that or let it hit him in the face - he couldn’t let go. It was stuck to his hand. He let his wand-filled hand drop to his side and scowled up at the wizard. Voldemort and his powers and his wanting Harry to hold onto rings and wands…well- well, he really _sucked_.

“I presume you know that Severus was not always Dumbledore’s man,” Voldemort said conversationally as if he hadn’t been interrupted by Harry’s tantrum. “He showed such promise when I first met him. It is a pity that he wasted his potential in the end. And for what? Pathetic Mudbloods and weak Muggle-loving wizards who would sooner cast him into Azkaban than thank him for it. His father was a Muggle, you know,” he said smoothly. “Filthy, abominable, drunk of a Muggle. Perhaps I should be unsurprised by Severus’s failings, as his own mother wasted away her pureblood life on such a creature. Wasted potential runs in the family, it seems.”

Harry eyed the ground, not even trying to meet Snape’s eyes now. It was out of respect, not embarrassment. He didn’t think Snape would want him to hear any of these things.

“He was elated to have found me, to join my cause. Such unbridled youth, such fervor, such talent.” Voldemort reached out to pat Snape’s head almost affectionately. “But even then, you always wanted what you could not have, didn’t you, Severus?” he murmured. “I even gifted you with your father’s death. I made him pay for the many harms he inflicted upon you, made him pay doubly for the death of your mother. I took care of you, gave you power and opportunity. And still you chose to align yourself against me.” The hand dug into Snape’s scalp, and Harry winced on the man’s behalf at the painful-looking hold. “And yet there is some comfort, I suppose, in knowing that I am not the only one you have betrayed.” He let go of Snape’s head, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He turned to Harry with a smile. “Allow me to tell you a story of one such betrayal.”

And he did.


	43. The Worst of All Sins

_He turned to Harry with a smile. “Allow me to tell you a story of one such betrayal.”_

Voldemort’s pleasant tone belied the ice in his eyes.

Harry shook his head, not sure what good that would do, but needing to do something to show his defiance and unable to articulate any words. The truth, the awful truth, was that Voldemort’s words had drawn him in. He was deeply curious about his guarded professor, and now that this crazy, evil wizard had started telling him bits and pieces of Snape’s past, Harry was hanging on to every word.

“It began in a tavern,” Voldemort began. “An old, filthy, rundown tavern.” Harry saw another small movement from Snape out of the corner of his eye. It was hardly more than a twitch, but it was enough to reinforce that Snape didn’t want this, whatever this was, said out loud. Even though Harry had no choice but to listen, he felt guilty knowing that he _wanted_ to listen. “Albus Dumbledore is not often the patron of such establishments, but then he _had_ been attempting to fill that Divination post for quite some time.”

Harry’s mind took a few seconds to catch up to Voldemort’s words, but as soon as it did, his blood turned to ice. He suddenly knew exactly where this was going, what Voldemort was going to tell him about Snape, because he already knew this story. The Hog’s Head. Dumbledore’s interview with Trelawney. That’s where she had given him the prophecy about Harry. It had been overheard in part, and that someone had relayed it to Voldemort. He’d been told all about a boy born at the end of July sixteen years ago who needed to die. But Harry didn’t die. His parents did. The parents he didn’t remember, except for a horrid Dementor-induced scream…

He shook his head, trying to stave off Voldemort’s next words.

“Ah, you have put it together, I see,” Voldemort smiled as if proud of his best student. “And Severus used to assure me of your stupidity. More lies, I gather.”

“You’re lying,” Harry said through numb lips.

“Lying?” Voldemort mocked. “Why, I have yet to tell you anything. You yourself came to an astute conclusion. You see, you may boast of trust and loyalty, but you understand quite well what your professor is capable of doing in his own self-interest.”

Harry clenched his lips together and avoided looking at Snape. He was starting to feel angry, and he didn’t even know who it was directed at. Voldemort? Snape? Himself? Maybe even Dumbledore, for not telling him the truth. Harry had been right before: this _was_ a sick, twisted, game.

“Severus Snape told me of the prophecy.” Voldemort apparently couldn’t let it go without speaking the harsh truth out loud. “It was entirely due to his devotion and loyalty to _me_ that I knew you must die. He was elated to do such a service for our cause.” He took a step closer, waiting until Harry looked him in the eyes. “I watched your father fall to my feet in death. He put up a pitiful fight. It was over quickly. You should be glad of that. Severus would have preferred a more excruciating death for him. He loathed your father, you know. He gloated at his part in leading me to the proud James Potter.”

Harry gave up on avoiding Snape’s eyes. He looked at him full in the face, and Snape was looking straight back at him. His face was white, but there was no apology in his eyes, only confirmation. What Voldemort said was true. Snape didn’t even try to deny it or hide it. He held his head up high, and Harry didn’t know if the man was daring Harry to do something or resigned to whatever happened next. All he knew was that the man was as much as telling him that it was true, that he had made a choice more than sixteen years ago that had ruined Harry’s life. And he had _gloated_ about it.

No. He shook his head in denial, sending a pleading look Snape’s way. This had to be a sick joke. Any second now, the man would reassure him. Maybe he was playing along because it was part of some odd plan to get them out of here. Or maybe…maybe it wasn’t quite how it sounded. Maybe Snape didn’t know what he was doing, or there was something else going on, or…or at the very least, he hadn’t celebrated his part in orphaning Harry.

Because he was starting to feel sick at the thought of all he had shared with this man over the past month, about letting him into his head and how much he’d come to depend on him, if all along he had been keeping this big of a secret. He absently clutched at the fabric over his stomach. Who knew betrayal would feel so much like nausea?

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asked Snape, ignoring the wobble in his voice. Snape’s silence was fanning his anger. If any of what Voldemort said was true, the man had _no right_ to not explain himself to Harry.

Snape’s lips were whiter than his face, Harry’s only clue that he felt anything at all, and still he stayed silent.

Harry took a step closer. “Say something,” he ordered, his anger giving strength to his voice.

Snape watched him for a few seconds before saying evenly, “What he says is true.” He clenched his lips shut and continued to hold Harry’s gaze, and Harry knew that was all he was going to get out of the man.

He was hardly aware of raising the wand, but once it was pointed at Snape, he couldn’t bring himself to lower it. It made him feel more in control of the situation. His body trembled with confusion and betrayal and anger. What’s more, he wanted to cry for what might have been. If only Snape hadn’t been at that tavern that night, or if he had chosen to keep what he’d heard to himself, Harry might still have parents today. He wouldn’t have had to live with the Dursleys, wouldn’t have had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs or search through a rubbish bin for scraps of food or learn how to hide bruises beneath his over-sized rags. He would have been _loved_.

Voldemort’s laugh should have been enough to bring him back from whatever hazy state of anger and grief that he was swimming in, but it wasn’t. He knew he was making the wizard happy, that he was letting him win by so much as pointing the wand at Snape - even if he had no idea of actually using it - but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not even when Snape continued to look at him with those horrible resigned eyes, that silent confirmation made worse by a lack of emotion. How _dare_ he act all stoic! He _ruined_ Harry’s _life_! He didn’t have the right to bury his emotions when Harry couldn’t bury his. He wanted to scream and rage at his professor, and the only thing stopping him was their audience of Voldemort and ten or so of his Death Eaters.

Voldemort stepped back, seemingly content to let matters take their course. Harry hardly noticed. He adjusted his grip on the wand, made difficult by the sticking charm. Nobody was actively seeking to harm him right now, so he was free to give himself over to the emotions coursing through him. The problem was that there were so many. He had always been bad at controlling his emotions, but now he felt so many, and they were warring for dominance. Confusion, grief, regret, anger, betrayal, disbelief. More confusion. And all of those emotions were compounded by his pounding headache and the aches and trembles running through his body from his recent ordeals. He knew he could very easily cry tears of grief and frustration, so he let more anger take hold to chase those away until later. He could give himself over to tears when he was alone. Right now he was pointing a wand at his professor, and he couldn’t bring himself to use it, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower it either. He was a statue. A shaking statue.

“Aw,” Bellatrix’s voice made him shudder, “Wee wittle baby Potter is going to cry!” She laughed, and others joined in.

Harry tore his eyes away from Snape to glance at their audience, and it didn’t help his anger to see how happy they were that his world was being torn apart. When he saw Lucius Malfoy, he remembered what the man had said when he’d visited Harry’s cell. _I’ll wager you will be quite willing to turn over your precious professor._ Is this what he had meant? Had he been biding his time, waiting for this moment so that he could watch his former friend be abandoned or murdered by the Boy Who Lived? Lucius’s eyes didn’t tell him anything. They only watched him steadily, a slight smirk and the lift of his chin the only sign that he knew Harry remembered his words. Harry had scoffed, said it would never happen, that he wouldn’t stop trusting Snape. Lucius hadn’t believed him.

Harry hadn’t known about _this_.

His inner turmoil must not have been exciting enough for Voldemort, as the wizard broke the silence to continue his tale, rubbing more salt into the wound. “Your mother’s death was less quick. She begged for me to spare your life. Stupid woman. She should have taken the chance to live. Instead, she died with a scream on her lips.”

Harry flinched at the memory of those screams. He almost missed Snape’s mirroring flinch, but he looked back in time to see it. He also didn’t miss the way Snape shifted his gaze to the left, no longer looking Harry in the eyes, or the way that the professor’s face blanched with an indefinable emotion.

“I enjoyed those screams,” Voldemort said gleefully. “I enjoyed killing your mother, and I owe thanks to Severus Snape for that pleasure.”

Harry’s eyes never left Snape’s face. It had visibly paled, his lips even whiter than before. The man had less control over his features than Harry had ever seen, except perhaps for the times when he had been exceptionally angry at Harry. It gave him something to focus on besides the words that threatened to tear apart his composure. He didn’t want to hear about his parents’ deaths. He didn’t want the details, or to know what enjoyment their murderer had gained from it. And- and Snape didn’t want to hear it either. It helped to see the unmistakable glimmer of grief in the man’s face. It didn’t mute the betrayal Harry felt, but it shocked him out of his anger long enough to remember the intensity of drowning in Snape’s grief during Occlumency lessons. That memory soothed his anger long enough for him to think and to observe. Like the fact that it was specifically _Lily’s_ murder that Snape didn’t want to hear about. It was the mention of Lily that had brought that grief to the surface. And that the grief Harry had experienced alongside his professor had been so deep and so overwhelming that it had almost been too much to bear.

On instinct, he reached his wand-free hand into the pocket that held his mum’s small stone. He’d never built up the courage to ask Snape about Lily. The man still didn’t know that Harry knew about their friendship. Voldemort didn’t know he knew either, if the wizard even knew that Snape had been friends with Lily in the first place. But Harry _did_ know. He knew that once upon a time, Lily had cared about Snape, and Snape had cared about Lily. And if Snape had been his mum’s letter’s recipient, and Harry was pretty sure he was, then he cared enough about her to keep an old piece of paper and a small and worthless stone for over twenty years, for no other reason than that _she_ had given them to him.

He took a step back, his wand hand wavering, as his mind went into overdrive. Snape couldn’t have _known_ the prophecy referred to the Potters. Even Dumbledore didn’t know for sure. Voldemort himself took a stab in the dark when he went after Harry. He shouldn’t have done what he’d done, no matter who it referred to, but if he had known it referred to Lily Potter, would that have convinced him to hold his tongue? And did he regret it when he found out? Did he try to stop it?

He studied Snape. The man had made a decent attempt to hide his grief, but he couldn’t hide his pain. His eyes were haunted. Harry could tell even though they wouldn’t meet his, and he wondered at how deeply Snape must feel that pain to not be able to hide it.

“Revenge is yours, Harry Potter. Take it.” Voldemort’s voice was an odd mixture of impatience and glee.

Harry took a deep breath, then another. He was breathing heavily, trying to get enough air in his lungs. He still felt the anger bubbling inside him, but there was something else alongside it now too: a calm rationality. Maybe even hope. There was more to this story. He might not like it, and it might be far worse than what he imagined, but then again…it might be better. He knew with a sudden, absolute certainty that he needed to hear the whole truth, and he needed to hear it from Snape. He couldn’t rely on Voldemort’s account, couldn’t let the evil maniac win. Not here or now, at least. He didn’t know if he could accept what Snape had done or extend forgiveness or refrain from ranting or kicking the man’s shin again (this time on purpose), but he couldn’t let his anger take over until he knew that the entire truth of what had happened was laid bare before him.

Not that he would do anything as extreme as to kill Snape even if his anger did take over. He wasn’t like Voldemort. And he wouldn’t play Voldemort’s games.

He lowered the wand.

Voldemort’s smile faltered.

Snape barely narrowed his eyes, now openly watching Harry watch him. Harry was gratified to see confusion in the man’s lowered brow. Good. Let him be unsettled for once. Let him be in the dark as to what was going on in Harry’s head. Harry might not be as vindictive as Voldemort wanted him to be, but he wasn’t a saint. His anger was subdued but still bubbled underneath the surface, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed for enjoying the momentary discomfort of the man who had caused him such pain.

“Kill him!” Voldemort raged. The man’s face had morphed into a gruesome scowl. He brandished his own wand and pointed it at Harry. “You know you want revenge. Take it!”

Harry licked his dry lips as he considered the situation. His own emotions were still churning and his hands were shaking, but Voldemort’s directive to kill Snape was as ridiculous as it had been before. Harry didn’t know if Voldemort was that out of touch with what normal people were willing to do, or if this was simply more of his madness showing.

“Kill him,” the wizard screeched.

He was betting on madness.

“No.” Harry’s voice echoed through the room. He hadn’t meant to say it so loudly, but he was sick and tired of this whole thing. Sick of being here, sick of Voldemort’s twisted ideas of fun, sick of being tortured and of feeling sore and achy and hungry every single second. And despite being in the midst of a life and death situation, he was also tired of not knowing just where he stood with Snape, and now add to that his uncertainty about where Snape stood with him. He didn’t need this. He needed to get out of here and save Ron and save all of his friends from a horrible fate. The last thing he needed right now was angst over things that had happened before he’d been out of nappies. It had already waited fifteen years to be dealt with. It could wait for a little while longer.

Voldemort strode closer, his wand pointing between Harry’s eyes. “You can’t possibly still trust him,” he seethed, slitted eyes impossibly narrowed, his face twisted in anger.

Harry glanced beyond Voldemort at Snape. The man was still watching, eyes still haunted, also still confused. They were unfamiliar expressions to Harry, who had learned Snape’s looks so well over the summer, but alongside them was Snape’s familiar thinking face. The man was pulling himself back from the edge of grief, and he was puzzling through the situation. Whether he was thinking up a way out of this or trying to figure out what was going on in Harry’s head, Harry didn’t know. But if it was the latter, he’d have a hard time because Harry hardly knew what was going on in his own head. _Did_ he still trust Snape? He’d so very recently come to trust him, but not too long ago, he’d reasoned out that he could _decide_ to trust him. That Other Harry thought it was important enough to hinge the war on, and he didn’t know why, but he believed that too, and so he could trust Snape with his actions, even if he didn’t trust him with his whole heart. Voldemort had given him doubts. But a few things were still the same: Snape was Dumbledore’s man _now_. He was on the right side of the war _now_. And he had as much as sacrificed his own life to come here and save Harry. Certainly that was enough to earn him the right to explain himself before Harry gave up on him in front of Voldemort and his minions.

All of Harry’s other choices had been taken away at this point, but he was still in control of this one.

He took a deep breath and looked Voldemort full in the face. “I do trust him,” he said more quietly than before, but no less adamant. He might be condemning them both to a long evening of pain by being so obstinate, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. What Voldemort wanted was something that he wasn’t even remotely capable of doing. Not to mention…something deep inside him was urging that this was the right call. He even thought that deep part of himself might be connected to his Inner Eye, the Other Harry, who had been so adamant that he trust Snape, even though he hadn’t told him why. That part of himself was urging that he not only needed to trust Snape, but that Snape himself needed to know that Harry trusted him.

Even so, he didn’t look away from Voldemort to see how Snape reacted to Harry’s declaration. He was too afraid that his face would betray his turmoil and that Snape would interpret it as doubt.

Voldemort stalked closer to him. His rage was on full display. “Do you know what he asked of me when I informed him that you were to die, Harry Potter?” The wizard stopped so close that Harry was forced to step back. “He asked that I spare your mother. Only her. He was content to see you and your father die by my hands.”

Harry swallowed against another rise of emotions. But that information wasn’t as shocking to him as the rest. It made sense that Snape would have asked that. He’d cared about Lily, and he’d hated James. He didn’t know anything about Harry except that he was a Potter. It showed how thoughtless and cruel Snape had been to throw a harmless baby into the discard pile, but it wasn’t shocking.

It actually gave Harry an idea, and with it, another hope to cling to.

Snape had been loyal to Voldemort when the prophecy was overheard, there was no question about that. But Harry was certain that he had completely turned on Voldemort by the time the Potters were killed. He was Dumbledore’s man by then. That wasn’t a lot of time for a complete one-eighty. Something had triggered it, something big enough to convince Dumbledore to trust him. Kneader’d said Snape was broken after the war…which was right after Harry’s parents died… Could it have something to do with the death of his closest childhood friend? A death he felt responsible for, that he had asked Voldemort not to carry out? Or was Harry making stupid conjectures because he desperately wanted there to be something good, something redeemable about the man he’d started to look up to?

He shook his head to clear it. Voldemort was talking again, telling him more about the death of his parents, and he didn’t want to listen anymore. He looked at the wand in his hands and thought about snapping it in two just to release some of the pressure in his chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He almost barked a humorless laugh. Snape had destroyed his whole life, and he couldn’t bear to so much as break the man’s wand.

He suddenly, desperately, needed it out of his hand. He backed away from Voldemort and wrenched at it, frantically clawing at it to get it away. He didn’t care if he had to tear up his skin along with it. He needed the wand gone and he needed Voldemort to stop talking and he needed Snape and the Death Eaters to stop watching him and he needed to scream and cry and scream some more.

His frantic movements were stopped by a wand at his throat. “One last chance,” Voldemort hissed. “Kill the spy. If you do, then I will go easy on you tomorrow evening. If you do not, then I will not only kill him myself, I will make you watch and I will make you suffer before you do.”

Harry shut his eyes tight. He felt like when he was a little kid and he’d thought that if he shut his eyes so tight while he was hiding that he couldn’t see Dudley, then Dudley wouldn’t be able to see him. It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work now. Voldemort’s wand jabbed uncomfortably into the side of his throat, and he leaned as far away as he could.

“I won’t do it,” he whispered and braced himself. It was a good thing he did, for he had barely opened his eyes when a flash from Voldemort’s wand sent him hurtling across the room. He connected with the hard stone wall and he screamed as he heard something pop and then felt a searing pain in his shoulder and down his arm. He panted and held in a moan. This wasn’t worse than Cruciatus, he reminded himself. Nothing was worse than that, and he’d lived through that. If only this pain would end like a pain curse could be lifted.

“Take him below,” seethed Voldemort. “Leave all doors ajar save the one to his cell. Let him hear his _trusted_ companion scream for mercy through the night.”

Harry gasped in pain as rough hands lifted him with intent to cause as much discomfort as possible. _Nott_. Of course it was Nott. The man was scowling, his eyes shooting daggers at Harry.

“ _Crucio_!” Voldemort screamed, and Harry watched Snape fall to the ground and writhe under the force of the curse.

“No!” he tried to escape Nott’s hold but couldn’t. The man was too strong and he was too weak. He lifted the wand… No. There was no wand. Voldemort must have ripped it from his hands when he’d thrown him across the room. He felt like sobbing. “Professor!” he screamed as the rough hands manhandled him through the open doors. He caught a final glimpse of Snape’s agony-filled eyes meeting his before he was dragged down the stairs and through the hallway to his cell.

Nott threw him to the ground and Harry cried out as he half fell onto his bad arm. He twisted around just in time to see the boot before it connected with his side. Giving up on not crying now, he curled up as best he could and shielded his head with his good arm. Snape wouldn’t be coming to save him this time.

“Enough,” came a silky voice from the doorway.

Nott laughed humorlessly. “I’m just getting started.”

“You’ve had your fun. More than once. The boy is too weak to survive an ill-placed blow. May I remind you - _again_ \- that should that occur, neither of us will survive the Dark Lord’s wrath.”

Nott grumbled in disgust but obeyed. Mostly. He kicked Harry’s foot on the way out, and Harry flinched. That would leave a bruise, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder.

He uncurled slightly and looked up to meet Lucius Malfoy’s disinterested gaze. The man started to close the door, but Harry stopped him. “Do you believe me now?” He lifted his chin, trying to ignore his pain and tears. He tried his best to look fierce even though it was a losing battle.

Lucius paused to study him with a pair of calculating eyes. He didn’t need to ask what Harry was referring to. After a moment, he inclined his head and backed out of the cell, shutting Harry up into darkness.

He curled up, finally alone to deal with the misery the day had brought. He found himself glad for the pain in his arm, as it distracted from the pain in his heart. He could focus on the throbbing in his shoulder, his side, and his foot. He could focus on how the rest of his body still felt weak and shaky and how he wanted to throw up even though he hadn’t eaten anything in at least a day.

And before long, he had no choice but to focus on the faint screams sounding through the building from somewhere overhead.

It all hurt, and he cried far too much, but it was better than thinking about his mum and dad and their last night alive. It was better than dwelling on Snape and what he had done and whether he had meant to and if he regretted it and whether it mattered if he did and…

He choked on a sob and curled up tighter, willing himself to sleep. It was the only escape available to him. And before long, his exhausted body did just that.

* * *

Harry didn’t know how long he slept, but he was awake when Snape’s unconscious body was thrown into the cell. Whoever tossed the man in wasn’t gentle; Harry had to shift out of the way in order to not be his landing pad. He didn’t have time to see more than sweat and blood and the fact that Snape was dressed in only a blood-streaked undershirt and torn trousers before the door was shut behind him. Even his shoes were gone.

He sat against the wall and listened to the man’s labored breaths. What was he supposed to do? He could make the man comfortable, he supposed. He considered his jumper. It was the only thing he could use as a pillow. But he was cold. As if to illustrate his point, he shivered. And…did he even want to make the man comfortable?

He shut his eyes against the rush of emotion, though it did little good in the darkness. He battled with himself. He didn’t know what he thought about Snape, about all of what Voldemort had said. And he didn’t know if he even wanted to think about it. Couldn’t he shut it up into a little box in the corner of his mind and shove it behind a mental wall and fortify it with every Occlumency shield at his disposal? He probably should, at least until they got out of here. He could shout and rail at Snape _after_ they escaped. Right?

Before he made up his mind, light from the doorway flooded the room again. He squinted up at Lucius Malfoy, too tired to move or to care that he was directly in the man’s path if he’d had a change of heart and decided to finish Nott’s job for him. The Death Eater dropped a magically lit lantern on the ground, along with a small bag and a pitcher of water. Harry looked up at him questioningly.

“You claim to still trust him?” Malfoy said with a sniff. “Let us see how he fares with his life in your hands.”

He closed the door before Harry could think what to say, but this time the room was lit up by the dim light of the lantern. Harry scrambled over to the bag, which he could see was made of a course material, like an old burlap flour sack. It was easier to ignore the pain of moving after he had been doing it for so many days, but still he hissed and let out a few _ow ow ow_ ’s when he tried to use his bad arm. He took a few sips of water from the pitcher first before opening the bag. Liquid on his parched throat felt so amazingly good.

He lifted a few items one by one from the sack. Two potions vials. He recognized one for pain right away, but the other held an unfamiliar silver-colored liquid. He cautiously removed the stopper with one hand and sniffed at it. No scent, which was kind of a relief. He was halfway expecting something vile. He replaced the stopper and set it aside. Next were two rags and a cream-colored ointment. Judging by the smell and his own experiences in the hospital wing, he was pretty sure it was to disinfect cuts.

He couldn’t imagine what Malfoy’s game was. Was he wanting to test Harry’s loyalty even further for some strange reason? Or was he actually concerned for his old friend? Or did Voldemort direct him to leave these supplies so that Harry could help Snape to be alive and well, ready to be tortured all over again and killed the next day?

Well. It didn’t really matter, did it? Snape needed help. No matter why this help was offered, it was up to Harry to give it to him.

He glanced at Snape, finally able to look him over for real. The man was covered head to toe in small cuts, probably from a nasty cutting curse. Small amounts of blood were crusted in places and freshly oozing in others. He thought there might be larger cuts on his chest and stomach, judging by the blood stains. Even though he was unconscious, his legs and arms kept twitching.

It felt almost as if no time had passed since their days trapped in his bedroom on Privet Drive, even while it seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet here they were again, trapped in a room together, Snape injured and unconscious, and Harry left to decide whether to help him.

He sighed. Who was he kidding? Of course he was going to help him. The same guilty conscience that had compelled him to help his Hogwarts tormentor back at the Dursleys’ wouldn’t allow him to ignore his rescuer now. Even though he might have played a role in orphaning him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the thought. No. He would try not to think about it. If he did dwell on it, he would only jump to conclusions and tear himself up inside over things that might not even be true. He needed to hear it from Snape first. And before he could do that, he needed to see to the man’s injuries.

But the minute he sat next to Snape’s battered body, rags and ointment in hand, he realized that _everything_ had changed since the Dursleys. Harry cared now. Even knowing Snape’s horrible secret, Harry couldn’t shut that part of himself off. He didn’t want his teacher to die, and he didn’t want to see him in pain. Somewhere along the way, he had come to care about Snape as a person, and that made all the difference.

With a new resolve, he got to work. It was difficult with only one arm, and with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling from hunger and nerve damage, but he managed to wet the rags with a small amount of water and clean the cuts as best he could. He followed up with the salve, rubbing it over as many of the cuts as he could reach. He gave up on rolling the man over; he weighed more than Harry did, and Harry was too weak to do much even if he could have used both arms. But he did a decent job of treating the cuts that he could see, and the ones under the man’s shirt and on his lower legs. If Snape decided to be upset about the intrusion after he woke, he could bloody well deal with it. The chest and stomach cuts were deep, but if the rate at which the smaller cuts were healing was anything to go by, whatever magic the salve contained should heal those cuts as well, given rest and time.

He felt Snape’s scalp, for once not caring about the man’s greasy hair. All he cared about was that large bump that he didn’t know how to treat. He rubbed some salve on it in case it helped, though he didn’t imagine it would, and took a long hard look at the two potions. They would have to wait until Snape woke up, he decided. The man would need help with the pain when he was awake, not while he was unconscious. And maybe he would know what was in the silver vial.

Still, Snape would have a terrible crick in his neck to add to his other ailments if he slept like that all night. Looking around, Harry spied the small rough bag Malfoy had left and bunched it up. It was barely big enough to fit in his fist, much less use as a pillow. Uncomfortable, too. He tossed it in the corner.

“Well, just know that if you curse me, this time I’ll have a really good reason to curse right back, you got it?” he groused at the unconscious man. Inching between Snape and the wall, he carefully lifted the man’s head and adjusted his legs underneath so that Harry’s lap could serve as a pillow. That would have to do. He leaned against the wall and tried to sleep sitting upright.

Scratch that. He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon. He was still exhausted, but his nap had taken the edge off. Besides, he thought darkly, Voldemort planned to make him sleep for the rest of his life. He’d much prefer to be awake for his last day. And now that Snape was seen to as best he knew how, there was nothing to interfere with his mind running away with itself. He told himself again to wait for Snape to wake up, that dwelling on all he’d learned would only hurt more without knowing all the facts, but it was impossible. The main fact was undeniable: Snape had told Voldemort of the prophecy.

It was like a stack of dominoes, watching it all play out in his head. Snape told Voldemort. Voldemort decided Harry had to die. Snape didn’t care; he was fine with the idea of Harry and James dying. All he asked was for Lily to be spared. Voldemort even gave her a chance to live; he’d said so himself. She’d died anyway though, saving Harry. She’d saved him with her love. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, Snape had turned on Voldemort.

 _That_ was the part that Harry needed to hear. He didn’t even know if it would make a difference, but he needed to know why and when Snape had switched sides. Anger bottled up inside him, and it needed a release. He thought he might be able to keep more control over it if Snape regretted what he’d done, but he wasn’t sure.

A tear escaped and he swiped at his face, promising himself not to cry when he confronted Snape. Now wasn’t the time for weakness. He needed answers, and as soon as he awoke, Snape was going to give them to him. He owed him that much.

He bunched a hand in Snape’s shirt. Was he completely nutters to still feel a sense of safety with Snape here? Between all he’d done in Harry’s past, and his helpless state now, that was the last thing Harry should feel. Maybe there was something wrong with his brain. Or his heart. He didn’t know if he had ever felt so conflicted. Was it normal to cling to someone and want to push them away at the same time? To want to punch someone and at the same time want to spare them any more pain?

Was it normal to feel both respect and disgust or both love and hate?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore.

Except for one thing: he had made the choice to trust Snape with his life. Despite all that had happened and all that he now knew, he somehow didn’t feel at all conflicted about that.


	44. A Thin Line

He was trapped. Something pinned him in place. But what? He looked down and immediately wished he hadn’t. Nagini was curling her way around his legs, pressing on him so that he couldn’t move. He tried to inch away, but his body throbbed, and his arm screamed in pain.

“Join me, Harry.”

His head jerked up. Voldemort was holding out a wand in his long, thin fingers. He was smiling maniacally at Harry. “Join me,” the wizard repeated. “Join me, and we can rule together.”

Harry shook his head, unable to speak. Nagini was still squeezing, and every bruise was amplified. He whimpered.

No. It wasn’t Nagini. It was Hunter. He almost sobbed in relief as the weight lifted off him and Hunter slithered away. He wanted to call to his friend to come back, but he couldn’t. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. Where was he?

“Kill the spare,” Voldemort told him. Harry looked down again, and this time he was holding the wand. He followed its path with his eyes. Snape was lying on the ground. He was bleeding. Harry cried out. Was Snape dead? Had he killed him? He hadn’t meant to. He bent over the man, ready to check his pulse, but lifeless eyes stared back at him. His breaths came in short gasps as he realized that Snape was dead. He didn’t remember killing him, but he must have. He was holding the wand.

No. No no no no no. Snape wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to grade his Potions assignment, and the flobberworms weren’t cut up yet. Who was going to teach Harry how to swim with gillyweed? Wait. Dobby had taken the gillyweed. Was that why Snape had followed him here? Was he angry that Harry had used the stolen gillyweed to talk to the dragons?

Did it really matter? His teacher was dead. Harry gasped a breath of air around his constricted throat.

He hadn’t wanted Snape to die. He hadn’t meant to kill him.

“Potter.” He heard Snape’s voice and jerked, because the dead man was still staring up at him. Was he a ghost? He felt hope rise in his chest. He didn’t think that Snape would much like being a ghost, but if he was, then Harry could still talk to him and say he was sorry for killing him.

But wait. If Harry had killed him, would Snape _want_ to talk to him? Maybe he was a vengeful ghost. Here to haunt him by hiding his books and making him forget the gillyweed next time. He shivered. He really, really needed the gillyweed to unstick the wand from his hand.

And he needed Snape. He tried to answer Snape’s ghost, but he still couldn’t make a sound, and he didn’t see a ghost anyway. He must have been hearing things. He leaned over the man’s dead body and felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. He didn’t want Snape’s ghost. He wanted _Snape_. He took a shuddering breath and finally managed to push noise past his tight throat. He gave himself over to his grief with a low keening sound.

“Potter.” He heard Snape’s ghost again, then felt a slight shake of his body. A sharp pain in his shoulder jerked Harry awake and he gasped at the combined physical and emotional pain. He doubled over, holding his arm to his body.

“My apologies,” murmured Snape from next to him in the cell. “I tried to be gentle. You appeared to be in the throes of a nightmare.”

Harry looked up through his pain, and relief washed over him. Snape was alive. He was exhausted and unkempt and could use a good meal, a shower, and a week of sleep, but the man was alive. Harry reached out a hand to grasp at Snape’s arm, just to reassure himself that he was warm and breathing. He was. Harry let out a sigh of relief and bowed his head, trying to get his frayed emotions under control. Which was hard. He’d been here for days. He’d been interrogated and tortured and starved and tested, and he was at the end of his rope. He didn’t think he could take much more.

He felt tentative fingers cover his hand where they gripped Snape’s arm, and he appreciated the small amount of comfort. He breathed in and out slowly. After several minutes, he straightened and leaned back against the stone wall. He took stock of the situation. He had been slouched over sideways, twisted uncomfortably in sleep, and his body was punishing him for it now. He could use a good stretch, but he didn’t dare try, with how every muscle pained him.

The lantern Lucius Malfoy had left still shone, its magic-fueled light casting the small cell into lights and shadows. Snape sat next to him, tired but alert, pale-faced and hunched over slightly, and Harry remembered the medical supplies.

“There’s pain potion,” he croaked and cleared his throat. “Salve too. I got at what injuries I could reach, but I couldn’t get your back. I can get it now if you want. Or I can…um, close my eyes if you want privacy or something.”

Snape looked at him as if he’d gone nutters.

Harry flushed. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. It’s just…you were hurt, and you needed-”

“What are you playing at?” Snape interrupted harshly, his voice hoarse. Harry shuddered at the reminder of last night’s torture session, of hearing the man’s screams.

When the words registered, he frowned. “What? Nothing.”

“Playing nursemaid, seeing to my injuries,” he hissed. “You do remember what occurred last night, do you not?”

Harry flinched at the reminder. He withdrew his hand quickly, having just realized that he was still clutching Snape’s arm, and averted his eyes with a clenched jaw. Of course he remembered, and now that he was forced to confront it head-on, all of his conflicted feelings were making themselves known.

“Yeah. I remember,” he forced out, tamping down his emotions. “But I think talking about it is bound to be painful enough for the both of us without all our cuts and sprains and bruises to worry about, don’t you?”

Snape stared, a confused frown firmly in place. Or was it a wary frown? Harry didn’t know, and he didn’t have the energy to figure it out.

He sighed and rubbed his aching head with one hand. “I’m not playing at anything. Whatever happened, it happened my whole lifetime ago, right? If we’ve waited this long to deal with it, maybe it can wait until after we see to your cuts and my shoulder? ‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I’m hurting here. Like, a lot.”

He really was. On one hand, it was kind of nice to have something physical to focus on. Not that the searing pain itself was nice. But his shoulder was easier to deal with than his inner turmoil.

Snape wordlessly inched to his other side. His movements were slow and his limbs trembled with the effort. He ran his hands gently over Harry’s shoulder and arm, probing at it, and Harry hissed and turned his head away.

“Not broken, but dislocated,” Snape murmured. “I can put it back in place, but it will hurt.”

“Worse than it already does?”

“Yes.”

Harry squeezed his eyes closed and braced himself. “Okay.”

He expected Snape to do it right away, but instead he heard rustling and felt something nudge at his hand where it braced against the floor. He squinted his eyes open. Snape was holding out the small burlap medicine bag, neatly folded. “Bite down on it,” Snape instructed, and Harry accepted it and placed it in between his teeth. He clamped down on it and squeezed his eyes shut again.

“Ready?”

Before Harry finished grunting his okay, he cried out as molten hot lava ran through his shoulder and reverberated down his arm. He panted and blinked back tears as he bit down hard on the course material of the bag.

“Anywhere else?”

Harry shook his head, eyes tightly shut against the pain. He must have plenty of bruises, especially where Nott had kicked him, but he was positive that nothing was broken. While he worked on controlling his breathing, Snape moved toward the lantern and the supplies that Malfoy had left. He picked up one potions vial, then the other, sniffing each of the contents in turn. He frowned over the silver potion, and Harry wondered again what it was. Before he could ask, Snape stiffly asked, “Who brought it?”

Harry spit out the bag. “Malfoy,” he gasped. “Malfoy left it. I don’t-” he took a shaky breath, “know why. D’you think-” he groaned as he tried to sit up straighter, “he really wanted to help? Or is he working an angle?”

“I couldn’t say,” Snape murmured. “Suffice it to say, it would be in our bests interests not to tell of any possibly unsanctioned generosity to anyone.” The man’s posture was stiff. He was turned away from Harry, and he held one of the vials to his nose for the second time in a way that told Harry that he was stalling.

Harry quietly sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to talking through Voldemort’s accusations either. He thought he might be content to put it off, pretend everything was okay between them for a while longer, but every uncomfortable move Snape made reminded Harry of the fear and grief that he’d seen in the man’s eyes the night before. Which helped to keep his strongest emotions at bay but also reminded him that Snape had fully intended to take his secrets to the grave.

Snape abruptly held out the vial containing pain potion.

Harry shook his head. “Malfoy left it for you. You’d better take it. If either of us needs to be in top shape for later, it’s you.”

Snape set it on the floor and rolled it over to Harry. “Don’t be stubborn,” he said gruffly.

Harry let his gaze settle on the vial. It was tempting. It would be nice to get rid of the aching all through his body. On impulse, he grabbed it and sipped half the contents of the vial and held the rest out to Snape, who didn’t move to take it.

“The vial contains one-”

“One dose, I know.” Harry leaned forward more and jabbed it toward Snape. “Half a dose for both of us is better than no dose for one of us, yeah?”

Snape hesitated, then gave in, grabbing the vial and downing the rest of the potion. They both sat back, and Harry immediately felt his pain lessen. It was still there, but it was more tolerable.

“You know something about Malfoy, don’t you?” Harry asked. Truthfully, he didn’t know if Snape did or not, but it seemed a reasonable shot in the dark. His professor often knew more than he let on. And hey, maybe it would put off the coming conversation for a little while longer.

Snape’s eyes darted to Harry and then quickly back to the vial in his hand. “I know a great many things about Mr. Malfoy.”

“You know what I mean. I heard you talking with him through the floo a few weeks ago. Have you been in touch with him the whole summer? I assume You-Know-Who doesn’t know. So that must mean either Malfoy’s up to something or you are. And when you said you ‘couldn’t say,’ do you mean you don’t know, or that you…well, can’t say?”

Snape paused, then answered, “If I do hold any information relevant to our current situation, I would certainly have a good reason for not divulging it.”

“Yeah, you’re a big fan of not divulging secrets, aren’t you?” Harry retorted, which effectively silenced them both.

The potions vials clinked together as Snape’s shaking hands set them both down and reached for the salve. It was painfully obvious that Snape was uncomfortable. He would never need to sniff a simple salve three times in order to identify it. After several long minutes, during which Snape set down the salve and began to reexamine the silver potion in excruciating detail, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The silence was only giving him time to rethink everything he’d learned and to feel mixed up all over again. He had to know Snape’s side of the story, and he had to know it now. But how to ask? Where to begin? What to say so that neither of them would explode within the first two minutes?

Not even homemade biscuits could have paved the way for _this_ conversation. Perhaps there was another way to ease into it? The man might be more forthcoming if he knew Harry already knew part of the story. If he planned on being forthcoming at all, that is.

Harry marveled that he didn’t feel angry right now, but it was probably because he felt numb. He didn’t think it would last though. The emotions were just under the surface of his exhausted mind, waiting for something to trigger them into overtaking him completely. Hopefully he could keep a rein on them long enough to hear what Snape had to say.

“What was my mum like?” he asked into the silence.

Snape started. He nearly dropped the vial he was holding but caught it before it could crash to the floor. He set it down with shaking hands and sat against the opposite wall as far as he could from Harry. Which wasn’t very far, in such a cramped space. His face was white, and Harry almost felt bad about surprising him with the abrupt question. Almost.

When Snape made no move to answer, Harry tried again. “Did she give you this?” He fished out the stone from his pocket and held it up for Snape to see. “Did she write that letter to you?” He studied his professor, took in the tick of his jaw and the raw look in his eyes, and realized that this was a side of Snape he hadn’t had to deal with before. He was like a cornered animal, and depending on how Harry handled this, the man was just as likely to shut down as to lash out.

Harry averted his eyes, sensing that the man needed whatever small feeling of space that he could get. “I found a photograph, back at Grimmauld Place. I know you two were friends. I saw you laughing together. I wanted to ask you about her, but…” he cleared his throat, “well, you know. It’s not like you’re the most approachable person on the planet.”

Snape remained silent, and Harry leaned his head back against the cool stone wall, waiting for some kind of a response. He fingered his mum’s stone, drawing comfort from the smooth, cool texture.

Several long minutes passed before Snape said in a rough voice, “Of all you’ve recently learned, _that_ is what you want to know?”

Harry nodded without opening his eyes.

“I killed her,” Snape said forcefully, and Harry flinched. He looked up. Snape’s face was twisted with bitterness. “ _I killed her_ and you want to know what - her favorite color?”

“ _Voldemort_ killed her,” Harry said and winced at Snape’s shudder. He hadn’t said the name on purpose, but he didn’t apologize. “If you don’t want to tell me about my mum, at least tell me the truth about what happened that night. You owe me that much.”

Snape sent a glare his way, both withering and desperate, enough to tell Harry that lashing out was going to be his way of dealing with this. “You already know the truth, Potter. I do not deny it. I overheard part of the prophecy. I was loyal to the Dark Lord, and I ran straight to him to win his favor,” he spat. “It was my intel that prodded the Dark Lord to hunt you down, to kill-” Snape broke off to take a deep breath. He spat, “I am everything he said. You should have taken your revenge when the wand was in your hands.”

“What did you do after you told him?” Harry asked. He breathed deeply, trying to keep his cool. It was hard to do at the thought of what had happened the night his parents were killed, but he needed answers and he wouldn’t get those answers if he responded to Snape’s attempts to get a rise out of him.

“I was proud of myself for showing myself so useful, so loyal to his cause,” came the bitter reply.

“Yeah, but what did you _do_?”

“What do you think I did?” Snape said caustically. “I preened in the spotlight of the Dark Lord’s favor! I gratefully accepted his trust and did all that I could to keep it!”

“And after you found out he decided the prophecy meant me?”

Snape clamped his lips shut. He seemed to deflate before Harry’s eyes, probably because Harry wasn’t playing his game. Snape obviously wanted to get this over with, to be condemned by Harry once and for all, and he was trying to rile him up to get there faster. But Harry was determined to drag every piece of information he could from that Slytherin head before he got around to assigning blame. And for once, he felt in control of their exchange. So that’s exactly what he was going to do.

“You want to know what I think happened?” Harry asked.

Snape twitched but didn’t answer.

“I think you regretted telling him because you still cared about my mum. You-Know-Who said you asked him not to kill her, but I think you knew he couldn’t be trusted to keep his word, so you went to Dumbledore. And somewhere along the way, you switched sides. Was it because of that? Were you trying to save my mum? Or was it because you didn’t trust You-Know-Who anymore? Or did something else happen to change your mind about being a Death Eater?”

The man closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Why does it matter? The end result is the same.”

“It matters to me.”

Snape turned his head and studied Harry through tired eyes. “You convinced the Dark Lord and his followers that you trust me, Potter. It was well done, though you may regret it tonight when he takes his revenge. _My_ plans have come to naught and I very likely will not live to see tomorrow. There is no longer a need for you to determine the extent of trust you are willing to place upon me.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t have to. I wasn’t lying last night. I trust you. That’s not why I want to know.”

Snape’s lips twisted. “You can’t possibly still trust me.”

Harry lifted an arm as if to say, _and yet, here we are_. “It’s not like I’m not confused or angry or- or- no. You know what?” He felt some of his control snap, and his plan to rationally proclaim his trust went out the window. “I _am_ angry.” He jerked his head and raised his voice. “I had to grow up as an orphan! With people who hated my guts and treated me worse than a dog! And then I had to deal with being famous about something that I don’t even remember! Do you even _know_ what it feels like to be hailed a hero when all I did was survive the night _my parents died_?” he yelled. “So yeah, I’m angry, because the minute you heard that prophecy, you should have known that You-Know-Who was going to go after some baby who hadn’t even been born yet and couldn’t have done anything to hurt anyone, and you ignored that and you told him anyway! It shouldn’t have mattered if it was my mum’s kid or not, you shouldn’t have done it!” He sat up and pointed at Snape. “And then you have the nerve to go postal on _me_ for eavesdropping! You’re a bloody hypocrite! All _I_ did was listen to things about me and Ron that you _bloody well should have told me anyway_ , and it’s not like I even told anybody else! When you spied on Dumbledore, you went out and decided to RUIN MY LIFE!”

He took a quick, sharp breath and plowed on. “I’m angry and I want to hate you, and I hate that I can’t, and I don’t want to trust you, but I do, because I’ve come to know you well enough to know that you’ll save me now if you can or you’ll die trying! So yes, I trust you, and DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME THAT I CAN’T!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He was heaving breaths by then, he was so worked up, and he glared daggers at Snape.

Snape stared with slightly parted lips.

Harry shifted angrily and grimaced at the pull in his still slightly sore arm. “And you’re not dead yet, so stop talking like you are! You’re the most intelligent and cunning person I know, so FIGURE OUT HOW TO LIVE, DAMN IT!”

They sat in silence for a long time. Not for lack of things to say, but because Harry wanted to say too many things at once. He wanted to scream at Snape and curse him for what he’d done, and at the same time he wanted to pepper him with questions about his mum. He wanted to make Snape understand how deeply he was hurt, but he also didn’t want to lose what they’d built this summer. Whatever they were becoming to each other meant something to him, and he wanted it to mean something to Snape too, but how could it when everything was in the process of falling apart? He saw so many conversational paths forward, and they were a mess of contradictions. But he was afraid to say anything at all, because he might start crying and be a blubbering mess. And how could he get across how simultaneously angry and vulnerable he was feeling if he was a blubbering mess?

He felt lost, and he didn’t know which way was up. He pulled up his knees and hugged them to his chest.

“I loved her,” whispered a voice so broken that Harry wouldn’t have thought it could belong to Snape. He looked over, but the man was staring into the light of the lantern. “Mock me if you will,” he said bitterly. “I never deserved her, I know. She knew it too. But even if I couldn’t have her, I couldn’t let her die. I went to Dumbledore. He saw me for the coward I was, but he protected her. Until he couldn’t.” He turned his face away so that it was in shadows, but not before Harry saw it crumple in anguish. “I agreed to turn spy. I would have done anything to-” He took a ragged breath and feebly waved a hand. “It was all for naught. She- she died. And I remained. I’d have traded my life for hers in a heartbeat.”

Harry bit his tongue to keep from responding, afraid that if he said something, the spell would be broken and Snape would stop sharing. It hadn’t occurred to him that Snape had been _in love_ with Lily - and he knew by Snape’s tone and words that that’s the kind of love it had been. That was a pretty huge detail, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He’d have to consider it later. For now, what else didn’t he know? And now that Snape’s tongue was finally loosened, what else might he share?

After a few minutes, his patience was rewarded. Snape went on with a shuddering breath, “For all that I’d pledged my loyalty to Dumbledore, he knew that I’d only done it for her. For- for myself. He viewed me with disdain back then. Rightfully so. But he extracted a promise from me.” He let out a long breath. “Protect Lily’s son. For her sake. I agreed. How could I not? Her eyes…” He trailed off, then whispered, “I had purpose. A miserable purpose, but it kept me going. Bide my time. Wait for the Dark Lord’s reappearance. Help Dumbledore to defeat him. Protect her son.” He gave a bitter laugh and flicked a hand at Harry and at the cell. “And see how well I’ve managed.”

The silence dragged on that time, long enough that Harry knew he’d have to prod any more information out of the man. It also gave him time to think. Snape’s admission filled in some of the blanks in his knowledge, like when and why Snape had turned spy. And why Snape had always protected him even though he hated him.

“So…” Harry said tentatively, “So what about all the times you wanted me expelled? That wasn’t to protect me.”

Snape shook his head. “ _That_ was vindictiveness. I am hardly a saint, Potter. I believe we’ve covered that.”

Harry nodded. “Because you hated me. Because you thought I was like my dad.”

“That wasn’t why.”

“Sure it was. You’ve been saying that for five years!”

“That wasn’t why I hated you,” Snape repeated in a low voice. His face was still turned away, and Harry wished he would look at him. “It was merely my excuse for doing so. I wanted it to be true so much that I forced myself to believe it.”

“Then why?”

He almost missed the man’s broken whisper, “You should have been _my_ son.”

Harry was too shocked to respond.

“I loved her,” he choked out, and Harry could see how difficult it was for him to admit it again. “I loved her, and she married my worst enemy. She should have married _me_ , had _my_ child. Not his. Her beautiful eyes did not belong in the face of James Potter’s son.”

 _That_ took the wind out of Harry’s sails. “Oh,” he breathed, at a loss how to respond.

“It disgusts you, doesn’t it?” Snape’s face turned to the light enough for Harry to see how his mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “To think that I would imagine myself worthy of her.”

Harry wanted to say no, and it would have been the truth, but he couldn’t say anything right then. He was too overwhelmed. He didn’t know what to think. He’d never thought his professor capable of that depth of love, and it was so _surreal_ to think about it. Not to mention that he’d have the image of himself leading an alternate life with a hooked nose to haunt his nightmares for years to come. Well. If he lived through this.

Snape snorted humorlessly, and Harry realized that he’d taken the silence as a yes to his question. But before Harry could correct him, he was saying, “And then you lived in her place. I couldn’t forgive you for that. I would have sacrificed myself for her, and instead she sacrificed herself for _you_. I hated you with every fiber of my being for that offense.”

Harry thought about snapping that he’d only been a _baby_ at the time of the so-called offense, but he didn’t. Snape knew that. He acknowledged it _now_ , anyway. He wouldn’t be admitting any of this to Harry if he hadn’t come to terms with it himself. He knew he’d been wrong to blame Harry, to hate him for something so far beyond his control. Harry didn’t have to argue his case. What he did need to do was decide whether to forgive or to let it fester.

“You, um, asked Voldemort to spare my mum,” he said haltingly, “but you didn’t care about whether my dad died…or me either. And even if she’d have lived, you still didn’t care whether I lived or died. Did you?”

“I didn’t.” Snape’s matter-of-fact admission hurt, but Harry wasn’t surprised.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. “Do you care now?”

Snape was silent for so long that Harry wondered if he’d need to repeat the question. Finally, the professor murmured, “I do,” in a quiet but firm voice.

Harry knew that voice well enough to know that he was telling the truth. He took a deep breath, and then another. “Okay then.”

There was a long silence, then Snape turned his head enough to cast a glance toward Harry. His eyes flashed, but he couldn’t hide the grief in the lines of his face. “Okay then what?”

“Okay then, let’s move on. We’ve got other things to worry about right now, don’t we?”

Snape stared. “What do you mean move on? I killed your parents!”

Harry flinched but said, “No. You didn’t. You-Know-Who did that.”

“Because of me.” Snape’s face was regaining some color.

“Because he’s an insane, power-hungry murderer.”

“Surely you are not trying to absolve me of my sins.”

“Do you want to be absolved?”

Snape was becoming agitated, and he set a horrified gaze on Harry. “No! I haven’t carried the guilt of my actions around for sixteen years so that you can brush it under the rug as if it doesn’t matter!”

“It does matter.” Harry swallowed hard around a lump in his throat. “Things that happened in the past always matter. But we can’t change them. I guess all we can do is learn from them, and try to make up for them, yeah?” He shrugged heavily. “Things would be a lot different if you hadn’t done what you’d done, but you’ve torn yourself up over it about as long as I’ve been alive, and I believe you’d do it differently if given another go at it. You’re different now. You’ve proved that by risking your life over and over for the Order and by protecting me for so many years even though you hated me. If anyone deserves another chance, I reckon it’s you.”

Snape’s face was turning an ugly red color. “No. You don’t have the right to forgive me!”

“Why?” Harry said fiercely. “Because you can’t forgive yourself? Well, I’m sorry, but I think you’ve punished yourself well and good for so many years, that there’s not much more I can do to you!” He threw up his hands. “Carrying around that bitterness seems to have worked out so great for you, that you think - what? - the best way to fix everything would be for me to do the same? Well, no thanks! I’ve already had enough misery in my life! Why would I want to heap more on myself?”

Snape started to say something, but Harry was on a roll, so he talked right over him. “I mean, come on! I hated you for _five years_ because you were downright _awful_ to me! You bullied me and intimidated me and insulted me and I _hated_ you for it! But I don’t hate you anymore - heck, I actually _like_ you now, most of the time! And if I can get over all that - all five _years_ of personal hell - and actually start to like you, even respect you, then I can darn well forgive you for something you did _before I was even born_!” His chest was heaving, he was so worked up.

“And another thing!” he yelled over Snape’s next attempt to speak. “No, it doesn’t disgust me! It makes me proud to be her son, that she was loved by so many people, and I’m glad that you loved her, so STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH!”

Snape didn’t try to speak again until he had been silent for several breaths, and then it was to quietly ask, “Are you finished?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Harry roared. He was appalled to feel tears burning his eyes, and he buried his head in his drawn-up knees in case he couldn’t stop them from falling. Stupid emotions.

Snape left him alone to get control of himself. Whether it was out of courtesy or because he thought Harry might explode again didn’t matter. Harry needed space, and he couldn’t get it in the small cell, so silence was the next best thing. It lasted for a while, and Harry managed to pull himself together after only a few tears, which he hastily wiped away.

Snape waited until Harry’s breathing was normal to whisper, “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

Harry sniffed, his head still resting on his knees. “I got Sirius killed,” he said in a muffled voice. “I don’t know if I deserve forgiveness for that either, but I’d still take it if he was around to offer it.”

Snape shifted and made a sound like he was about to argue, probably something about apples and oranges, but he stopped himself, and Harry was glad. Their past sins were different - Harry hadn’t meant for anyone to be harmed, after all - but that didn’t mean he was unfamiliar with the heavy weight of guilt that came with feeling responsible for a loved one’s death. However different the details, they had that much in common.

Snape took a long, slow, shaky breath. “Lily-” his voice cracked, “had the worst temper of anyone I knew. She was inherently kind, but when crossed, she was a force to be reckoned with.”

Harry peeked out from above his knees. Snape was looking at the lantern light again, and he had tears in his eyes. Harry thought he’d better remember this moment, because it was probably the only time in his life he would see Snape cry. Well, almost cry. Same thing. He tucked the surreal image away in his memory and listened with rapt attention as somebody finally told him something real about his mother.

“Nevertheless, her capacity to forgive was beyond my understanding. Whereas I clung to my grievances, she actively searched for reasons to put them behind her. She- she gave me so many chances. Far too many. I’ve often wondered whether I might have chosen differently if I’d not taken her nature for granted. If I’d known the very real possibility of losing her.” he sucked in a breath, then met Harry’s eyes. His face was awash in sadness, but in his eyes was also hope. “I see her in you. You have James Potter’s face, but her expressions. And her nature. So much of her nature. I’d have seen it earlier if I’d been at all honest with myself.”

Harry held perfectly still, wanting more.

“If you were entirely like him,” Snape went on, still holding his gaze, “then you could be nothing like her. Not even a mixture, and nothing of your own making. I convinced myself that you deserved it, that I was free to hate you. I took out my self-loathing on you. I don’t understand how you can forgive that. I don’t understand how you can forgive any of it.” Snape looked completely lost, completely unlike the Severus Snape that Harry knew.

Harry raised his head and bit his lip. “Maybe…maybe sometimes it’s okay to not understand. Doesn’t mean you can’t accept it. Or trust it.” When Snape didn’t respond right away, he tentatively offered, “I’m, um…willing to start over if you are.”

Snape swallowed and looked away.

“I mean, it’s not like we won’t still get on each other’s nerves,” Harry rambled. “I’m still working on the respecting boundaries thing, and you’ve seriously got to figure out how to take compliments and have a sense of humor more often, and not be so secretive all the time, and maybe-” He closed his mouth at Snape’s mild glare and then quirked his lips at that small bit of normalcy. He sheepishly shrugged his good shoulder. “We’re works in progress.”

They studied each other across the small space, and then Snape slowly inched forward and held out his hand. Harry looked from his professor’s face to his hand and back again. “To starting over,” Snape said.

Harry leaned forward and clasped Snape’s hand in his own. “Starting over,” he agreed. It felt so formal, this truce over a handshake, but it felt nice too. It felt freeing, like Harry finally had permission to shed his worries over the past and start anew with something better.

“So what now?” he asked as they settled back into their respective corners.

“Now…we live.” And though Snape still looked like he’d been through the emotional ringer, there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.


	45. Sacrifice

Piercing light. Blinding pain.

A still body. Pale skin, blue lips. Angry fingers, searching for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” rasped a callous voice behind a soulless mask.

_No._

A million shards of grief ripped through his heart. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He violently shook his head. The world tilted and he would have tilted with it, if not for the cords holding him in place.

No. Snape wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be, because he’d promised. He’d promised they would live, that they’d both get out of here. He’d _promised!_

What he wouldn't give to wake up from this nightmare, but he was wide awake. He knew this was no dream.

The moonlight shone down on the clearing, combining with artificial lights to illuminate the Death Eater masks surrounding him. But he kept his eyes on the motionless body lying in the center of unforgiving stone. The familiar face was turned away, and yet the stillness of his chest was all that Harry’s eyes could see. The rest of the world shifted out of focus. He didn’t see the sparks of magic this time, couldn’t bring himself to look for them, or to even think beyond the pain in his chest. He barely knew when a primal scream broke through from his chest and out of his throat.

Voldemort had taken everything from him. _Everything_. And he’d finally gone too far.

His teeth clenched. His eyes blazed. Gasps and murmurs mingled with the faint sounds of the night as the air in the clearing began to pulse with magic.

* * *

_Two hours earlier_

“I’m all for living.” Now that the most difficult part of their conversation was behind them, Harry’s exhaustion was settling back over him like a heavy blanket. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to fall asleep while discussing their impending escape, so he shifted so that he was sitting up straighter against the wall. “What’s the plan?”

Snape silently rolled the vial containing the silver potion through his fingers, deep in thought.

Harry sighed. “You’re not going to tell me the plan, are you?” It was unsurprising, but still. After all the secrets the man had just shared, you’d think he’d be fine with just one more…

Snape gave him an inscrutable searching look.

“You don’t have a plan,” Harry guessed, let down after his momentary high. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the will to live is pretty important and all, but I was kind of hoping it was backed up by some sort of sneaky Slytherin plot. Maybe one involving us escaping like, right now? Because I don’t know what time it is, but we were probably asleep for a long time, and whatever You-Know-Who has planned is going to happen pretty soon here, and I highly doubt it is going to be pleasant, and I don’t really want either one of us to die-”

“I am not going to let you die,” Snape said quietly. He looked away as if he’d just awkwardly bared his soul again, and Harry knew without asking that while Snape had logically accepted his arguments for forgiveness and starting over, accepting it emotionally was going to take time.

Studying the man, he decided not to bring attention to it. They’d had enough of a heart to heart for one day. It had taken five years to get to this point, and Snape wasn’t all that great at processing emotions to begin with. Harry figured he could let his professor come around to their new understanding in his own time. “Yeah, okay. No dying. That’s good. I’m liking the plan so far…” he prodded.

Snape looked down again, his thinking face firmly in place. Along with his secretive eye pinch.

“Great,” Harry groused. “End of the world, and you’re still leaving me in the dark.”

Instead of answering, Snape asked, “Do you remember our conversation about codes, back at Grimmauld Place?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I told you then that even the most trustworthy of Order members are not given more information than they need to know at any given moment.”

“I get that. I do,” Harry insisted, “but I’d think that how we’re getting out of here is something that I need to know.”

“You have an intelligent mind,” Snape admitted, eyeing him with a head tilt, and Harry was gratified that the compliment was easily given, “but you are still impulsive and you wear your emotions - and your thoughts - on your sleeve. You have much to learn about subtlety.”

Harry frowned and opened his mouth to argue about trust-

“And before you make a case involving trust going both ways,” said Snape, “allow me to assure you that this has nothing to do with trust. It has to do with playing to your strengths and recognizing your limitations.” Harry shut his mouth with an audible snap, and Snape gave him a knowing look. “You see? Open book.”

Harry harrumphed, grudgingly accepting the truth in that statement. He _was_ an open book. He thought he’d done alright being stoic with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and he was a decent liar when he needed to be, but that was far removed from the skillful deception that Snape was accustomed to as a spy. Although…

“I can read _your_ face too, you know,” he pointed out. “I know what all your looks mean. Well, a lot of them, anyway. I know what you’re thinking much of the time too. Why is that so different?”

“What am I thinking now?” Snape stared at him with his best inscrutable gaze.

“No fair,” Harry complained. “You’ve got your spy face on!”

“Exactly. I _have_ a ‘spy face,’ as you so eloquently call it,” Snape sniffed. “But even a spy cannot keep his guard up every second of every day. We are no longer at school, where you see me for short bursts in a classroom environment. We have lived in close quarters this past month, not to mention regularly _seen inside each other’s minds_. It is unsurprising that we have learned each other’s visual cues and tells. The difference,” he stressed, “is that I am perfectly capable of hiding my thoughts and responses when I deem it necessary to do so.”

Harry thought for a minute. He hesitated, then observed, “So you’re saying that you don’t um, deem it necessary to keep all your thoughts hidden around me anymore?”

Snape’s spy face didn’t falter.

Harry smirked. “Right. Never mind.” But he knew that he was right, that Snape had gradually been lowering his walls around Harry, feeling more comfortable, maybe without being fully conscious of the extent, and pointing it out aloud made Harry feel better about the fact that he’d been doing the same.

Snape looked back down, thoughtfully rubbing the potions vial with his fingers.

“What is it?” Harry asked, hopeful that he could be told _something_.

“A message,” Snape said shortly.

“Saying?”

“That if we are to receive outside aid, it will be under very specific circumstances.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot to the middle of his forehead. “Outside aid…you mean from _Malfoy_? He can’t possibly be on our side!”

“His allegiances are not the point.” Snape jerked his head as if irritated, though the irritation clearly wasn’t with Harry. “A good thing, too, as they are too complicated to delve into just now. Suffice it to say that what he offers is our best chance. But his solution to our predicament is not without conditions.”

“What- what conditions?” Conditions from a Malfoy couldn’t be good.

“The foremost condition is that we will not be spared the Dark Lord’s ceremony.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very good offer of help to me,” mumbled Harry, already not liking whatever plan Snape was keeping close to the vest.

“It is not precisely an offer of help,” corrected Snape. “A _deal_ would be a more apt description.”

Harry stared, not liking the sound of that either. “What does he want?”

“Nothing that the headmaster will be unwilling to give,” assured Snape, and while the answer was more cryptic than Harry would like, it reassured him. As much as he trusted Snape, he wasn’t under any pretenses about his professor. The man had a darkness within him that would never completely go away. Even though he was one of the good guys now, Harry knew there were absolutely things that Snape would be willing do that Harry would prefer to not know about. Dumbledore may not be perfect, with his puppeteer’s strings and his ability to make the tough calls, but if _both_ men would be willing to play Malfoy’s game, then it let Harry breathe a little bit easier.

“Why’d you tell me? You just got finished calling me out for being an open book. I assume You-Know-Who wouldn’t be happy to hear of Malfoy’s offer of a ‘deal.’ Aren’t you worried about me giving him away?”

“Your shortcomings in the art of subterfuge are not all-encompassing,” Snape waved a hand, still focused on the vial. “They lie primarily in the form of emotional responses and reactions to surprise stimuli. When given time to prepare yourself, I do believe that you have satisfactorily proven yourself able to not reveal the identity of a potential ally.”

Harry probably shouldn’t feel proud at the half-insult, half-compliment, but he did. It was as good as Snape telling him “well done” for not giving him away when had been in disguise as Crabbe. He gave Snape small grin before it fell at the thought: “What if You-Know-Who Legilimizes me again?”

“Do what you have been doing,” Snape said easily, with no visible sign that he was worried about the scenario. “Push him out. Make him fear your mind. It seems to be working.”

“But what if it doesn’t this time? He’s doing some sort of _ceremony_ , professor. I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be good, and every time he does whatever he does with more of my blood, he gets stronger. What if he gets so strong this time that he rips my mind apart?” The thought terrified him, all the more because it felt like a very real possibility. He shivered and closed his eyes at the memory of what it had felt like the last time Voldemort had rummaged through his mind.

“Look at me,” ordered Snape, and Harry did. The man’s gaze was deliberately steady, and it helped to calm Harry’s racing heart. “Think about what has happened since you arrived. You pushed the Dark Lord out of your mind - not once, but twice - and injured him both times. You successfully Legilimized Bellatrix Lestrange without any prior experience or knowledge of how to do so. You may not be aware of this, but you also sent out a pulse of magic that forced the Death Eaters restraining you to fall away. And then you claim that you _saw magic_ , something only the Dark Lord appears able to do at present. Do you think those things random coincidence?”

Harry bit his lip. “I…don’t know. Honestly? I’m weirded out by whatever’s going on, yeah, but I’ve been a little busy. Haven’t had much time to mull over it, you know?”

“Now is the time to mull it over,” directed Snape, “because the Dark Lord does not appear to be the only one gaining something from this experiment. _You are getting stronger too_.”

Harry leaned back and took a deep breath. “That- that’s not possible. Is it?”

Snape waved a hand at Harry’s scar. “Many things have happened that should be impossible. You defy expectations, Potter. You always have.”

“How is it happening?”

Snape shook his head. “I do not know. Your mental connection, perhaps? What power he gains is automatically shared with you, much like the Parseltongue? After all, it is unlikely that such a gift was naturally present within you. More likely, Parseltongue was shared with you when he established your unique connection the night he gave you that scar. Perhaps powers that he gains through the physical means of your blood are shared in the same way?” He leaned back, deep in his figuring-out-a-puzzle stance, and shook his head. “I am not sold on that theory, however, as his increased powers have not appeared to affect you prior to the last few days. Perhaps it is nothing natural or automatic. It could be triggered by specific instances.” He crossed his arms and tapped his chin with the fingers of one hand. “That is more likely, in fact, as each time you’ve displayed impressive abilities has occurred immediately after either seeing into his mind or pushing him out of yours. Perhaps in pushing your way out, you inadvertently managed to siphon off some of his newfound powers into yourself.”

“Siphon off…like steal? Or like share?”

“Explain.”

“If I _am_ getting some of his powers,” Harry said slowly, thinking it through, “am I taking them away from him? Like, is there a limited supply of powers, and every time I get them, I take some away from him and he’s not as strong as before? Or is it limitless? Like…he stays just as powerful and I just get to share in them a bit?” Which led to more questions. “And does it last forever or for a little while? I mean, do you think I get to keep them, like I could still be more powerful right now, it’s just I don’t know how to use it yet? I don’t feel any different though if that’s the case…”

“I don’t know,” Snape admitted. “This is new territory. Time will tell whether your magical core itself has been altered.”

And wasn’t _that_ a crazy thought! Harry felt dazed at the idea, and a little bit afraid too, even if he didn’t completely understand it. What if he _was_ more powerful, and what if his powers only manifested themselves in uncontrollable bursts, like when he was angry or afraid? He could _hurt_ people…

“Don’t.” Snape’s stern voice drew his attention away from his inner thoughts. “I know that face. Wait until we are out of here and back at Hogwarts to engage in your worrying-about-other-people urges. Right now _you_ are the one in danger. You have the right - the _duty_ \- to focus your energies on protecting _yourself_. You can worry about everyone else later.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. He tried to obey, forcing thoughts of himself as an uncontrollable menace out of his head. To distract himself, he asked, “Do you think You-Know-Who knows what’s happening?”

Snape shook his head. “I doubt it. He seems to think that what is occurring between the two of you is no more than a side effect of your mysterious connection. I doubt he has made the intellectual leap to believing that your own powers are in any way a factor. Or that they are subject to increase. He is too inclined to think himself the only truly exceptional wizard until presented with incontrovertible evidence to the contrary.”

Harry took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Too much to think about, and not enough time to do it. All this talk about Voldemort and powers was making him feel ill again. He wiped a clammy hand on his dirty trousers and cleared his throat. At least he had one more pressing need to distract himself from thoughts of potions and death, even if his face was heating up just thinking about it.

“Um, professor…” he cleared his throat again and waved at the bucket in the corner. “I, um, I need to…”

To his credit, Snape didn’t acknowledge his discomfort or say anything to compound it. He merely inclined his head and turned his back to give Harry some privacy. Thankfully, he also didn’t let Harry dwell on his embarrassment. As soon as Harry had relieved himself and settled back against the wall, Snape faced forward again and asked, “To what extent are you willing to act on your proclaimed trust in me?”

Harry opened his mouth to insist - yet again - that he would trust him, but he stopped himself. From Snape’s pointed look, he understood that the man wasn’t trying to be redundant. The question wasn’t about trust so much as of Harry’s ability to overcome his own limitations. He had a hard time acting on trust, had a hard time standing aside and letting others - adults, especially - take the reins. Even now, he was biting back the urge to wheedle more details out of the man before committing to anything. But being reminded of that, and of how trust wasn’t trust if it wasn’t accompanied by action, he was suddenly eager to prove himself to his professor.

He also had a sudden appreciation for how Slytherin Snape was. With one question, Harry had shifted from overwhelming curiosity to willing compliance.

“You’re good,” he breathed.

Snape lifted the corners of his mouth in an almost-smile, which dropped at the sound of approaching voices in the hallway.

Harry’s heart stuttered at the realization that the Death Eaters were coming for them. _It’s time_. “Just tell me what to do…or what not to do,” he said quickly.

“Do as you have done throughout these past few days,” Snape spoke fast. “No pretenses. But be aware that the Dark Lord is not stable, and that instability makes him unpredictable. If you push him too far, it will not help either of us. You understand?”

Harry swiftly nodded.

“You will be subject to the sleeping potion,” Snape went on. “Do not fear it. You will be rescued in due time. They will not inflict harm on you while you are under its effects, and the potion itself will not cause lasting harm. Once you are given the antidote and it is able to work its way out of your system, you will be as you were before.”

Harry jumped at a clinking sound outside the door, but he jerked another nod.

“And above all,” Snape stressed, holding his gaze, “do not lose hope. When all seems lost, you must stay strong.”

Harry tried not to show his fear as a key turned in the lock, but it was impossible to keep the anxiety out of his eyes as he looked at his teacher.

“We will survive, Harry,” said Snape fiercely. “I promise you.” He downed the silver potion and threw the vial into the corner of the cell.

The lantern went dark a second before light flooded the room from the opening door. The lantern and water pitcher were nowhere to be seen, somehow hidden by Snape from the prying eyes of the guards. Harry’s first tangible clue that things were different this time was the Death Eater robes and masks that their captors wore when they entered the room and forced Harry and Snape to their feet.

Snape managed to reach out and squeeze Harry’s arm before they were torn apart and dragged out of their cell. It wasn’t much, but it helped.

Harry squared his shoulders. He could do this.

* * *

They were in a different clearing than last time, and despite his nervousness, Harry wondered how many clearings Voldemort routinely used for his gatherings and rituals. This one was smaller than the last, and the trees on each side were more dense. The last rays of a setting sun lit the clearing until a muttered spell and the flick of a Death Eater’s wand caused small, bright lights to float above their heads.

Harry took in more Death Eaters in masks and robes. He didn’t see Voldemort, but his eyes narrowed in on a thin, tall rock jutting up from the ground in the center of the clearing. Just next to it was a flat rock, just large enough for Voldemort to use as a platform, or - Harry shivered - as some sort of sick altar on which to sacrifice a sixteen-year old Gryffindor. He looked away.

Only one Death Eater was holding him, but two were holding Snape. He wondered if they were nervous. They’d known Snape for a long time. They probably knew that he could be dangerous, that he wasn’t someone to mess with. Were they angry with him? Did they want vengeance for his betrayal? Were any of them at all sorry to be leading their old companion to what could be his death?

Lucius Malfoy, maybe. Harry had no idea what deal he and Snape had struck, or whether Malfoy could be trusted to do whatever it is that Snape thought he’d do. But from what Snape had said, it didn’t sound like it had anything to do with concern or sentiment. So what _did_ the Death Eater want, that meant enough to him that he would be willing to betray his very vindictive master? He fought the urge to look around at the Death Eaters, to try to guess which one might be hiding an annoyingly aristocratic blond head.

Before he had time for any more thoughts, the sharp pop of Apparition sounded through the clearing, and Voldemort was there. Harry almost rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt at a grand entrance, but he was distracted by the flare of pain in his scar.

“Harry Potter,” said Voldemort in an oily voice. He smiled, though he did not look so calm or pleased as he had at their initial meeting a few days ago. Harry had obviously worn out his welcome. The dark wizard beckoned, and the Death Eater holding Harry brought him forward with an iron grip on his arms. He thought about kicking the man, but he remembered Snape’s warning. He needed to be brave, yes, but now was not the time to be stupid.

“I have long awaited this night, dear Harry,” Voldemort said as he stood directly in front of him. “You should feel honored to be not only witness, but participant, to my rise. From tonight forward, I will be the most powerful wizard ever to exist.”

Harry didn’t answer. He decided to save his impulse to fight for when he knew what Voldemort had planned for the evening.

Voldemort didn’t seem to mind his silence, turning his attention from Harry to Snape. Only, he had no desire to chat with _him_. With a flick of Voldemort’s wand, Snape collapsed to the ground between his Death Eater guards and writhed in silent pain. Harry tensed but resisted the urge to cry out or to try to go to Snape, knowing that there would be no point.

“Shall we get started?” Voldemort asked and turned toward the rocks, as if torturing Snape had been an inconsequential interruption to his evening.

The Death Eater holding Harry forced him forward until he was standing in front of the tall rock, then yanked him around so that his back slammed up against it.

“His clothing,” Voldemort directed, and the next instant his shirt and jumper had disappeared, leaving him shivering in the cool night air, but mercifully still clad in his trousers. Before he could register what else was happening, cords were wrapping themselves tightly around him, fastening his arms and legs to the rock so that he couldn’t move anything except for his neck - though there was little need for that, as all of the Death Eaters were forming a semicircle in front of him, Snape held up between two of them. A thicker cord wrapped itself around his mouth, gagging him, and he struggled for the first time as his ability to speak was taken away. Somehow, not having the power to defy Voldemort verbally frightened him more than losing the ability to fight physically.

“My loyal followers,” Voldemort said in a triumphant voice. “One year ago, I rose from the ashes of a half-life. You welcomed me back as your master, served me as though no time had passed. Now your loyalty will be rewarded. You will witness my rise from mortal limitations, knowing that you serve a wizard more powerful than all others combined!”

The Death Eaters lowered to their knees and bowed their heads as one. Snape was forced to his knees as well, but he refused to bow his head, looking instead at Harry, as if lending him strength through his gaze. Voldemort forced his head low with a flick of a wrist, but Harry appreciated the defiance. He was afraid, but it was manageable somehow, with Snape’s solid presence there alongside him.

“Wormtail,” Voldemort called, and a short Death Eater came forward. “You took his blood the first time. You shall have the honor of taking it again.”

Wormtail knelt again before Voldemort and simpered, “Thank you, Master.”

A cauldron was conjured before them, though Harry didn’t see who had conjured it. A thin line of steam rose from within it, the contents hidden from Harry’s view. Wormtail approached him, a knife in his hand glinting with the reflected lights from above the clearing. Harry knew he wouldn’t get away from what was coming, but his fear response kicked in and he struggled against his bonds.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will empower your foe,” Voldemort said majestically, raising his hands into the air.

The Death Eaters repeated the words, chanting as Wormtail’s dagger made contact with Harry’s skin. He made no sound as he felt the dagger pierce his arm and the blood trickle down past his wrist, but he couldn’t keep himself from trembling. Wormtail held a vial to Harry’s arm until it was full, then poured it into the cauldron. It hissed, but Harry still couldn’t see its contents. Instead of trying, he searched out Snape’s gaze. He was helpless; he needed to not feel so helpless, and Snape was the only one he could look to for help.

Snape was still kneeling, held down on either side by Death Eaters, but his head was up and his eyes were on Harry again. As soon as Harry looked at him, Snape gave him a small nod. The look on his face was one that Harry had always wished to see in Potions class - something that communicated that he was doing well and to keep it up. Harry breathed in and out a few times, trying to get a handle on his fear. A little over a year ago, when he’d been in a similar situation, he’d never have thought that having _Snape_ present would be what helped him to get through it the next time. But those black eyes were a source of strength to him now, and he kept his eyes focused on them, not bothering to see what Voldemort or Wormtail were doing.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will empower your foe,” the Death Eaters chanted one last time, and then all was silent.

Harry’s view of Snape was blocked as Voldemort stepped forward and held a goblet of steaming white liquid to his lips. He drank its contents, then closed his eyes. After a full minute, he smiled. “I feel it, Harry,” he said softly. “I am infused with power.” He opened his eyes and turned so that he faced only Harry. His eyes were bright, his face euphoric and crazed all at once. “I can manipulate magic with a thought, wield the power of nature without even a wand to direct it.” He ran a finger along Harry’s jaw, and Harry let out a muffled cry from behind the gag. His scar hurt so badly that he wouldn’t be surprised if it burst open at any moment.

Voldemort removed his hand and turned to his followers. “Bring the traitor!” he called, and the Death Eaters rose to their feet, two of them dragging Snape to the center, throwing him bodily onto the flat rock. Harry winced at the sharp slap of flesh meeting stone. He tried not to worry, tried to have faith, to _breathe_. There was no question that Voldemort meant to kill Snape. But Snape had promised that they’d survive, and he had a plan. Any second now, he’d Disapparate. Or Malfoy would swoop in with a daring rescue, or the Order would show up with wands drawn.

Voldemort held out his wandless hands to Snape, and the man began to writhe, his hands shaking, his teeth clenched. His eyes remained open, seeking out Harry’s, seeming to tell him to trust, to be strong, to-

Snape’s eyes shut as he gave an involuntary shout of pain.

Harry struggled against his bonds.

“You shall die this night, Severus,” hissed Voldemort. “Your pain and suffering will be a reminder to all who witness that _no one_ betrays Lord Voldemort!”

Harry watched as several of the Death Eaters flinched, and he gritted his teeth at the stupidity of such men, blindly following a master who didn’t think twice about causing them pain so long as he himself received the glory. What sort of man would willingly, knowingly follow such a wizard? What would compel men such as Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, or Malfoy to encourage their own sons to follow in their footsteps, knowing that they would forevermore be one bad mood away from pain and suffering, perhaps even a senseless death?

It was madness.

Snape convulsed again, the clearing silent save for the sounds of his suffering. Even the curses that were used on him were silent, Voldemort not needing so much as an incantation or a wand in order to cause him pain. Harry felt tears dangerously close to the surface, his eyes filling with wetness, knowing that he was helpless to stop Snape’s suffering. Even if he were free from his constraints, he couldn’t do much, could he? But he knew that he would try. If he could, he would rush Voldemort, attack the Death Eaters, try to get his hands on a wand, perhaps even try to call up that magic that he’d seen in the other clearing.

 _The magic_. Grasping that thought - needing something to focus on besides the cries of his professor - he focused his eyes on the grass. He tried to call up the image of the magic he’d seen before, the beautiful sparks that had filled his vision, but nothing happened. A tear escaped in his frustration, and he huffed as he tried again to struggle free.

A commotion brought his attention back to Snape, but what he saw made his blood run cold. The man was convulsing, eyes rolled back in his head, lips tinged with blue. He watched, horrified, as the convulsions worsened and then stopped.

It wasn’t what it looked like, though. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be, because Snape had promised. Harry barely registered how his whole body was shaking. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything except for the throbbing of his arm and the pain of his lungs as they refused to expand. The world narrowed until there was only piercing light from above and a blinding pain from within.

And a still body. Pale skin, blue lips. Angry fingers, searching for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” rasped a callous voice behind a soulless mask, pulling his hands away from Snape’s still neck.

_No._

A million shards of grief ripped through his heart. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He violently shook his head. The world tilted and he would have tilted with it, if not for the cords holding him in place.

No. Snape wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be, because he’d promised. He’d promised they would live, that they’d both get out of here. He’d _promised!_

What he wouldn't give to wake up from this nightmare, but he was wide awake. He knew this was no dream.

The moonlight shone down on the clearing, combining with artificial lights to illuminate the Death Eater masks surrounding him. But he kept his eyes on the motionless body lying in the center of the unforgiving stone. The familiar face was turned away, and yet the stillness of his chest was all that Harry’s eyes could see. The rest of the world shifted out of focus. He didn’t see the sparks of magic this time, couldn’t bring himself to look for them, or to even think beyond the pain in his chest. He barely knew when a primal scream broke through from his chest and out of his throat.

Voldemort had taken everything from him. _Everything_. And he’d finally gone too far.

His teeth clenched. His eyes blazed. Gasps and murmurs mingled with the faint sounds of the night as the air in the clearing began to pulse with magic.

He didn’t know how the cords were ripped away, only that he was suddenly free, and he charged at Voldemort without conscious thought. Even the pain in his scar did not stop him from tackling the despicable wizard to the ground, or from pummeling him with his fists. Arms yanked him away. He screamed and they let him go with cries of pain. He fell to the grass. He couldn’t see clearly, blinded by tears, but Voldemort’s angry face wavered in his vision. Angry and afraid. Confused.

Good. Let him be afraid! Harry met Voldemort’s red eyes, and the clearing fell away. He was falling, and it was dark, so dark. Memories flowed through his mind, so fast that he could see them clearly, but they weren’t his. He knew that they weren’t his. They were Tom Riddle’s. He was _Legilimizing Voldemort._ He was being pushed out, but he grasped for purchase in the wizard’s mind. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to see anything in the wizard’s dark, twisted mind. He wanted to hurt, to destroy, to cause pain for all the pain that Voldemort had caused him. And he could feel that this was causing him pain.

The connection was severed with a sharp pain to his head, and he fell. He brought a hand to his scalp. He was bleeding. Someone had hit him, but nobody touched him now. He lay in the grass, panting, suddenly exhausted, coming to himself again.

He began to sob.

Snape was dead. Of course he was. He had managed to stay alive and well while they were enemies, but the second he indicated any sort of caring for Harry, the second Harry finally connected with someone who could tell him more about his parents, he was ripped from Harry’s life just like everyone else had been. He should have known it was bound to happen. And instead Snape had urged him to trust him, had promised him, and told him to be strong, to not lose hope, that when all seemed lost-

He gasped in a shuddering breath of air and crawled to his hands and knees, facing Snape. Still nobody touched him, but he registered the sounds of shouts and confirmed with a glance that Voldemort was on the ground, still conscious but in pain, paying Harry no mind.

He crawled to Snape but was finally yanked to his feet by a Death Eater. He struggled. He needed to get to Snape. His professor was the most intelligent person he knew. He was strong and brave, and above all, he was cunning. He’d known Voldemort would set out to kill him. He’d taken a potion. What had it done? Would it revive him? Was he really dead? Harry had to see for himself, damn it, and he couldn’t if this Death Eater kept dragging him backward.

He did look for the sparks that time, and he found them. They drifted up from the grass and down from the trees and he gathered them to himself, and he pushed them outward and the hands fell away. All of the Death Eaters fell away, stumbling to the ground as if by an earthquake. He lurched to his feet and over to Snape as quickly as he could, feeling for a pulse with shaking hands.

There was no pulse. Snape’s lips were tinged with blue. He was dead.

It was his nightmare all over again, only it was ten times worse. He shook his head, letting out another sob, and clutched at the man’s tattered shirt. The sparks gathered to him once more. They pulsed, and Harry wasn’t sure he could make them stop whatever they wanted to do next, even if the force of the magic killed himself and everyone in that clearing. He lowered his head to Snape’s chest. He should probably be trying to get away. He might actually be powerful enough to do so. But he couldn’t do anything for the paralyzing grief in his heart.

“The potion!” he heard faintly through his cries. “The potion, now, you fools!”

He opened his eyes, taking what he was sure would be his last look at Snape. He smoothed down the man’s greasy hair, forgetting why he’d ever been repulsed by it. He’d never call him a greasy git again as long as he lived, not if Snape would just open his eyes…

Hands grasped him roughly, and he didn’t fight. He had no fight left. Even the sparks began to dissipate, as if realizing that the one who had summoned them had lost the will to command them.

A solid body held him firmly in place, while another pair of hands forced his mouth open. He barely registered the potion sliding down his throat or the hand clamping over his mouth so that he had no choice but to swallow. His vision began to tunnel, the world fading before him.

But he wasn’t too far gone to hear Lucius Malfoy’s voice whisper in his ear, “He lives.”

His breath caught. He struggled, too late to stop the murkiness entering his brain, but he needed to ask, needed to know if that meant…

“Severus lives,” he heard and let out a breath as the world faded to black.


	46. A Power He Knows Not

He was afraid. For a long time, that was all he knew. He had lost all concept of time. He just _was_. He existed, and so did the fear.

Then he became aware of the darkness. All around him was darkness, and he was cold, so cold. He wanted to hug his knees to himself, but he couldn’t find his body. He tried to reach out to feel the ground around him, but he couldn’t tell if he was moving his arm or not. It was like his senses had been turned off. Was he on grass or concrete, carpet or rock? He found himself wishing that whatever had caused him to not be able to move or touch would cut off all feeling to his body, for the cold chilled him to his bones. He shivered. He could feel _that_ too.

At least he didn’t feel like crying. Perhaps he had been through so much lately that his tears had dried up. That could happen, right? He was certain there was only so much a person could take before numbness set in.

Was that why his brain was fuzzy? Was it numb?

No, he decided after considering it for far too long. (Was it only a minute, or had it been days?) His brain was like his body: it worked, but not all the way. Whatever had caused the darkness was causing a sort of darkness to his mind as well.

Knowing that didn’t stop him from trying to reason his way out of wherever he found himself. But how could he do that when he didn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten here? He thought that maybe Voldemort had done something to him. The dark wizard’s face kept creeping up in his mind, deepening the chill in his body whenever it did. He had vague memories of pain and torture and tears and being so very afraid. Snape’s face was there too, but that helped him to feel a little less cold, a little bit more safe, so he tried to pull up Snape’s face as often as possible. But that didn’t make sense… Didn’t he hate Snape? No, wait. He didn’t. Not anymore. Or did he only dream that he didn’t hate him anymore? He didn’t know. The details were as fuzzy as his brain.

He felt a wave of hopelessness fall over him, mingling with the fear to form a depressing stew of emotions. How could he figure out how to get away if he didn’t know where he was in the first place? Was he doomed to be here forever? He didn’t like being cold or numb or fuzzy. And he didn’t like the darkness. He wasn’t afraid of the dark - living for so many years in the cupboard under the stairs had cured him of that - but he was afraid of what the darkness might be hiding in this strange place that he couldn’t touch. He had only had to worry about spiders in his cupboard, but he’d learned in recent years that far more terrifying things than spiders existed, many of which liked to roam in the dark.

He felt a shift in the air around him, which only served to bring to mind nightmarish images of giant Acromantulas and soul-sucking Dementors. It occurred to him that he was even more afraid now, but his heart wasn’t racing. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat at all. Was he dead? Why did he feel both relief and anguish at the thought? But no. If he was dead, then why did he still feel cold? Is that what happens when you die? Cold and darkness for eternity?

He didn’t want to be dead. Maybe…maybe a few tears would be okay after all. If he could even cry without a body.

“You aren’t dead, Harry,” a voice startled him from out of the darkness. He knew that voice. It was his voice. It was also the voice from a dream…

Light flooded his vision. He had the urge to close his eyes, but he had no eyes. Wait. How could he see without eyes? Before he could ponder that question or use his non-eyes to see where he was, his surroundings changed. Swirling lights, changing colors, like he was traveling by Portkey to an unknown destination. It stopped on a rocky meadow. Harry could smell the ocean breeze and looked up to see a cottage…

“Kneader’s,” he whispered. He widened his eyes. His mouth…his eyes…his heart! He could feel his body! He reached a hand up to feel his face, to reassure himself that he still had one, and that it was attached to the same body he’d had before. He held out his hands in front of his face and turned them over. They certainly looked the same. He let out a long breath. _Thank Merlin_.

“Hello, Harry,” said the voice again, and Harry turned to see a carbon copy of himself standing nearby. Other Harry. Himself from his dreams. His Inner Eye?

“My brain isn’t fuzzy anymore,” Harry said by way of greeting. “Did you do that?”

Other Harry nodded. “I’m afraid it is only temporary. You are under a powerful potion. I can only negate its effects on your mind for a short while.”

“’S all right,” he murmured, looking around. “So we’re still inside my mind. Which makes sense. I mean, I doubt you could even appear to me out in the real world.”

“No,” Other Harry confirmed. “I could not. I am part of yourself. Only if I were a separate entity could I appear to you in such a way.”

Harry nodded absently as he took in the serene atmosphere of Kneader’s Point. The theory surrounding his Inner Eye would be fascinating to him someday, but today he wanted answers on a more pressing topic. “So I’m under the potion, then. Voldemort’s sleeping potion.” It occurred to him that he didn’t even know what the potion was called. Or if it even had a name. Snape had said he developed it specifically for Harry…so maybe it didn’t even have a name. It was much easier to puzzle over its lack of a name than to wonder if he would ever wake up from its effects.

“Yes,” Other Harry answered him. “Voldemort had quite a bit more planned for his evening of celebration. He was not ready to cut his ceremony short, but you caused him to fear you. That fear overrode his desire for more pomp and circumstance.”

“I remember,” Harry said quietly. It all came back to him. He’d been tied up. Wormtail had taken blood from him, though that part hadn’t been as awful as Harry had imagined. The man had barely taken any blood in comparison to the amount taken by the blood collectors during his first days of captivity. What had been awful was the helplessness of not being able to move, then seeing his blood used in Voldemort’s ceremony, and of seeing Voldemort gain strength before his eyes. And then Snape…

He took a few quick shallow breaths at the memory of Snape’s still body, of his blue lips. “He’s alive. Snape. Malfoy said so. Please tell me he wasn’t lying.”

“Severus Snape is alive.”

Harry closed his eyes, and tension eased from his shoulders. “Good. That’s good.”

He’d thought Snape was dead. He couldn’t erase the memory of grief that he’d felt in that moment. It had been like Sirius all over again.

“Although technically, Malfoy _was_ lying,” Other Harry cocked his head to the side as if weighing the truth.

Harry’s eyes shot open. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying not to panic.

“Snape ingested a poison,” his dream self explained. “A slow-acting poison. He would have known that the trauma of torture would speed up the process, killing him before Voldemort would have the chance.”

“Then…” he licked his dry lips, “he _did_ die?” But he was alive _now_. He focused his thoughts on that, repeating it like a mantra. He didn’t know how, but this awful tale had a good ending. Well. A good ending so far.

“Yes,” Other Harry said but continued reassuringly, “The poison is also slow in death. As long as he was administered the antidote within a few hours of his death - which he was - his chance of survival was good.”

“Chance?” he squeaked. “You mean he took a poison knowing there was a chance he _wouldn’t_ survive?”

Other Harry looked at him gravely. “You know that Professor Snape is no stranger to risk.”

Harry cleared his throat. Yes, he knew that. But he didn’t like it. He decided that maybe it was time to talk about something else. He was getting worked up, and he also didn’t know for how long his mind would be clear. “So am I in the basement? The one you showed me before?”

Other Harry nodded, his eyes sad.

He shivered, feeling violated at the thought that he was unconscious and defenseless while Death Eaters had free access to his body. He was nothing more than an inanimate blood-making factory. “Just what I always wanted,” he said with forced lightness, “to be chained up in a basement like Frankenstein’s monster.” He glanced around at the beautiful day, smelling the salt in the fresh air. He felt fortunate to be seeing this instead of the basement.

“You felt safe here,” said Other Harry as he also took in the scenery. “You found it peaceful. I thought you might appreciate that right now.”

Yes, Harry thought to himself. He wasn’t certain when was the last time he’d felt safe, but he definitely found this place peaceful. “Thanks,” he said and sat down on a rock-free patch of grass. “Just tell me the rest then. Rip the band-aid off. You said my capture would be the turning point of the war. Did I do what I was supposed to do? Or have we lost?”

Other Harry took a seat a short distance away. “You heeded my words,” he said, a small satisfied smile grazing his lips. “You trusted the man you thought you’d never be able to trust, even when evidence was before you to the contrary. Even when all hope was lost.”

Harry felt a small stirring of pride. First Snape had implied a _well done_ , and now his Inner Eye seemed to be doing the same. It meant something, coming from both of them, especially considering how little he’d been used to being praised growing up with the Dursleys.

“This ordeal is not over for Professor Snape,” his other self said, “but your part is done. If you wake, you will know that you were successful.”

Harry’s heart sank. _If_ he woke. That was answer enough. He might have done his part, but it could still go either way. Voldemort might still be successful, might still attack Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, might still kill all of his friends…

He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “You said…um, you said before that Voldemort’s plan is flawed. That he would get stronger, but that I had to let him get stronger if I was to have any hope of winning against him.”

Other Harry nodded silently. He seemed to be letting Harry figure things out on his own.

“Did you know that I would get stronger too?”

Other Harry nodded again.

“Is that the big flaw in his plan? That the two of us, we’re connected, and he can’t get stronger without sharing some of that with me? Without making me strong enough to maybe beat him someday?”

“Yes,” confirmed Other Harry quietly. “He underestimates you, and he misjudges the nature of your connection. He can gain power from you through physical means, but he cannot to do so through your mind. You control the flow of power that occurs there,” he pointed at Harry’s scar. Or at his head. Same difference, Harry figured. That scar symbolized the mental connection that he shared with Voldemort. He may never fully understand the nature of that connection or why Voldemort’s failed killing curse had had such an effect, but maybe he could learn how to use it to his benefit. Or could he?

“But I _can’t_ control it,” he said. His shoulders sagged. “He’s sent me false visions, and even true ones when he wanted to manipulate me. He forced his way into my mind when he wanted to give me a message. Even when I Legilimized him, I did so by accident. And I couldn’t control what I saw.”

“He forced _your_ mind into _his_ ,” corrected Other Harry.

“Huh?”

“It is an important distinction. He cannot bear to be in your mind, Harry. He can perhaps do so for short bursts, long enough to draw your mind away and into his, but your mind is protected by your mother’s love. It wears on him to stay for any length of time. And when you yourself feel love, he finds your mind unbearable to so much as touch. That is why he gives you visions and messages - making _his_ mind the playing field - rather than invading your mind to view _your_ vision or thoughts.”

“But he Legilimized me,” Harry protested. “And he was good at it!”

“He has gained power. As with many who gain sudden, unearned power, he believed it would make him invincible. And he did manage to overpower you for a time. But, Harry, your mind is naturally the stronger of the two, and love only makes it more so. By Legilimizing you, he merely gave you unfettered access to his mind. It allowed you to draw on his power and to make it your own. He did not foresee that. He also still refuses to recognize that no power that he can possibly gain can defeat the raw power of love.”

“My mum’s love,” Harry whispered.

Other Harry nodded. “Hers. And your own.”

“I felt really powerful after the ceremony,” he said slowly, then paused to consider his words. Snape didn’t know the answers to his questions about his newfound powers, but his Inner Eye seemed to know a lot, which made him want to ask as many of his questions as possible. “But I didn’t feel powerful leading up to it. Does it come and go? Do I get to keep some of it? You know, for forever?”

Other Harry smiled. “You cannot feel it because it is currently unstable. It is changing you, Harry, just as it changed Voldemort.”

Harry widened his eyes in alarm. “It’s going to make me crazy?”

“No,” Other Harry smiled in amusement. “Voldemort’s madness is borne of paranoia, fear, and the self-destruction that comes of craving endless power. His increased powers are made dangerous by his madness, but they are not the cause.”

Harry heaved a sigh of relief.

“Your powers are in flux,” he clarified, “made less noticeable by the fact that you’ve siphoned off Voldemort’s powers little by little into yourself. You are not gaining _new_ powers, per se; your magical core is simply growing stronger. Becoming more attuned to the magic around you and to the magic within you.”

“Then I won’t lose it?” Harry sat with lips parted as he considered the implications. It was frightening, considering that he might have access to magic that he’d only ever dreamed about. But he was still worried that he wouldn’t be able to control it, that he might accidentally hurt someone with it.

“Theoretically, you could,” Other Harry answered. “Voldemort is losing his, after all. But as there is no one with a direct pathway into your mind who could draw it away from you - no one who can stand to be in your mind for any length of time, that is - I doubt you ever will.”

“Wait. Hold up. Voldemort’s losing his powers?” That seemed a pretty important detail to just gloss over like that.

Other Harry cocked his head, as if considering his words. “Think of the power like a charge…or imagine it as if it were water. His magical core received an influx of water, so to speak, which caused it to grow stronger and to deepen its roots. He receives more strengthening water every time he imbibes the potion made with your blood. Now, every time you manage to latch onto his core and direct some of that water to flow into your own magical core, it feeds yours and dries up his own. The stronger your roots become, the more his will atrophy and fade to normal proportions.”

“Wow,” said Harry, wide-eyed and appreciative of the analogy. His Inner Eye could give Professor Snape a few lessons on making concepts easier to understand in Potions class. “That’s wicked!”

Other Harry’s lips quirked up. “Yes. It _is_ wicked.”

“You were right,” Harry shook his head, amazed. “His plan _is_ flawed. Really, really flawed. He’s going to all this trouble to get stronger, when really all it will do is make _me_ stronger.”

“So you see why you had to be captured,” Other Harry said softly, regret in his eyes.

Harry nodded, thinking. “The more of my blood he uses in his potion, the more powerful he gets. But the more powerful he gets, the more powerful _I_ can get and can eventually defeat him. Not to mention,” he looked up, “if I hadn’t been captured, I wouldn’t have seen all this firsthand.”

Other Harry smiled sadly. “I would not have wanted this for you, Harry, if there had been any other way.”

“I know.” Harry shrugged heavily. Now that he understood what was meant by Other Harry’s warnings, he _did_ know. “I understand now. I hate what’s happened, and I’m not all that sure I want whatever this power will mean for me, but if it helps me get rid of Voldemort for good, it will have been worth it. Right?” He looked to his dream self for assurance.

“Yes, Harry,” Other Harry assured softly. “It will have been worth it.”

Harry nodded. “ _If_ I wake up…” He swallowed at the thought and then thought of another concern. “But how can I take his powers away if I get far away from him? I could only do it when I was connected to his mind through Legilimency.”

“Only then?”

“Yeah…” Harry said, trying to think of any other time. “Well. There was that time when he was testing Snape’s ring. I saw through his eyes for a couple seconds. Like a vision, only I was right there. I’m sure it must have happened then too, because that’s the first time I could see magic.” He watched his other self for clues as to whether he was right when he guessed, “Maybe I have access to his magical core whenever I have a vision? Or…well, those are usually accidental. How do I make sure I drain his powers on purpose? Wouldn’t that require some sort of Legilimency?” He widened his eyes, alarmed. “But I can’t do that! Snape said I could destroy my mind if I tried to Legilimize Voldemort from afar. He said I could turn into a vegetable!”

“You are far from an average wizard,” Other Harry pointed out calmly. “Especially now. Even Snape might reconsider his stance in light of your stronger magical core.”

Harry shook his head to try to clear it. Too many thoughts were warring for attention in his mind.

“Rely on Professor Snape,” offered Other Harry. “He will help you. He has a part to play after this ordeal is done. You will need guidance. That prophecy - Snape’s prophecy - was not a string of pretty, meaningless words. Severus Snape _is_ uniquely qualified to guide you in preparing to face Voldemort. Not only for a future day when you will face Voldemort for the last time, but for right now, for today. You must learn to harness your mind’s talents for Occlumency and Legilimency if you hope to be able to control that connection and thereby siphon more of Voldemort’s powers away from him.”

Harry cleared his throat, overwhelmed by the idea of trying to learn how to Legilimize Voldemort, and from a distance too. He hadn’t even studied Legilimency at all yet! Sure, he’d done it by accident a couple times, but that was different. This…this was like knowing he needed to figure out how to run an Olympic foot race before he’d even learned how to crawl.

He sighed. “I did my best to let things happen on my own terms. I tried to stay brave, not let them win. I trusted Snape. And he got away. If he got away, he’s coming for me. I know he is. Any chance you’ll tell me his chances of success? You must think it’s likely, seeing as how you’re telling me all this.”

Other Harry smiled but he shook his head. “I have no certain vision beyond this moment. What happens now - what decisions Severus Snape makes in the next hours or days - will determine the outcome of this moment in history. Until then, I can only guide you toward what I fervently hope will be your future.”

Harry bit his lip and plucked a long bit of grass from the ground. He rolled it between his fingers for a long minute. “Did you know how much I would come to trust Snape for real?”

Other Harry’s eyes danced with something like delight. “I saw that it could happen. I _hoped_ that it would happen. An honest and deep trust was your best chance to weather the storms that Voldemort threw your way.”

“Did you know about- about my mum? About Snape and…” Harry’s voice trailed off.

“I only know what is revealed to me. That was not revealed to me,” he answered gently.

Harry sighed. If- _when_ he got out of here, he’d have an awful lot to think about. “Well, all I can say is a fat lot of good that trust is doing me right now,” he said morosely, giving in to his waning emotions. He took in the beautiful day and felt betrayed by his own mind, knowing that the scenery wasn’t real. He was as good as dead, comatose at the whim of Voldemort and Death Eaters, waiting for a rescue that may or may not ever come. No, he tried to tell himself. It _would_ come. Snape had a plan. He trusted Snape, and Snape had a plan to rescue him. Maybe. At the very least, he was alive and he would soon come up with a plan.

“It was not for you the good was intended,” Other Harry interrupted his thoughts.

“What?” Harry frowned and studied his companion. “I don’t understand. You said I needed to trust him to get me out of here. That’s what everything was about.”

“Yes,” nodded Other Harry. “But more so than your need to trust, was his need to know your trust.”

Harry pursed his lips. Must his Inner Eye play around with words and meanings? “Well, he was always going to come after me, right? Even if he didn’t really care about _me_ , it’s his job. And he, um…he said he’s been protecting me for my mum’s sake. Whether I trusted him or not, he would have come on his own, or Dumbledore would have sent him to get me. I just had to trust that and not do anything stupid in the meantime. I figured that was the main reason you wanted me to trust him. So I wouldn’t mess things up with my own harebrained schemes. Wasn’t it?”

Other Harry was silent for long enough that Harry bit his lip and asked, “He _would have_ come for me either way…wouldn’t he?”

“Things are rarely that simple,” his dream self said softly. “Would he have come for you? Yes. Would he have succeeded?” He left that question hanging for long enough that Harry inferred that the answer was no. “Severus Snape has led a lonely life,” Other Harry went on. “He has had few bright spots in that life, few occasions to feel love, meaning, acceptance, forgiveness…or trust.”

Harry looked away. He’d sort of figured that about the man, but hearing it laid out like that made him feel bad, made him see another side to the bully Snape had been for most of the time they’d known each other. Not that being unloved or bullied himself excused his past actions. The man _had_ been pretty awful for most of the time Harry had known him. A lonely life was no excuse for some of the things he had done to Harry and many other students. But still…it put the man’s general demeanor in a light that Harry could sympathize with.

“He has been approaching a crossroads for quite some time,” Other Harry revealed.

“A crossroads?” Harry sucked in a sharp breath at what that could mean. “Like a crossroads of loyalty? You mean, he _was_ thinking about going back to Voldemort?” He shook his head in denial and felt a pain in his heart at the thought. He’d worked so hard to convince himself to trust Snape. Surely the man’s trustworthiness hadn’t been so flimsy all along…

“No,” Other Harry held up a hand to reassure him. “He made up his mind to leave Voldemort long ago. He has never faltered in that choice. In every future path I have seen, his aversion to Voldemort and his ways remains firm.”

Harry dropped his shoulders in relief, a weight lifting off of his chest. “What then? What do you mean by a crossroads?”

“One could say…he was losing faith.”

“Faith?” He frowned in confusion.

“He has protected you, Harry. For as long as you have been at Hogwarts, he has protected you as relentlessly as he has hated you. Protection for the sake of your mother, hatred for the sake of your father. Those motivations will inspire a man for only so long, particularly when that which gives him his primary sense of purpose is ripped out from underneath him.”

“You mean him not being able to spy anymore,” he guessed.

Other Harry nodded gravely. “He could no longer fulfill that purpose. He has little else in his life to inspire him. His obligation to you…well, let’s just say that it remained the strongest thing tethering him to this existence.”

Harry frowned. That sounded ominous.

“But one can hold on to a tether bound by the dead for only so long. If he were to stay true to his purpose, succeed in all that protecting you would require of him, he needed to be bound by the living.”

Harry shook his head, making it clear that he didn’t understand.

“He needed to know love.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Um. I hope you don’t mean me. Because I don’t, er, _love_ him.”

“The love of a child comes in many forms. The form he needed most was forgiveness. A forgiveness so pure that it could only be borne out of unwavering trust. By placing your faith in him, despite your knowledge of his past sins, you gave him a gift, Harry. A gift he has all too rarely received and that he is not likely to take lightly.”

Harry let those words soak in. It was odd, this looking at everything from Snape’s perspective. He felt humbled that his trust might mean so much to the man, but he didn’t understand how it could at the same time. Harry Potter or no, he was only a kid.

“So it wasn’t ever even about me?” he asked quietly. “When you say it wasn’t about _me_ learning to trust _him_ so much as it was about what him being on the receiving end of my trust would mean to him, you mean that it was…it was about giving him a reason to want to rescue me?”

“He had reasons,” Other Harry corrected softly. “As I said, he would have attempted to find you regardless. But in a sense…yes. He needed a more important, more personal reason. A reason to rescue _you_. A reason to fight for _you_. Not for your mother’s son or the Boy Who Lived or the object of prophecy. Just _Harry_.”

“Just Harry,” he whispered absently, mulling over those words and all that they represented. Was he really “just Harry” to Snape now? It’s what he wanted to be, he realized. He would always love his parents - or, the idea of them - but he wasn’t _them_. He wasn’t Snape’s schoolyard bully or his childhood friend or his tragically lost loved one. He didn’t want to be his mum for Snape any more than he’d wanted to be his dad for Sirius. He wanted to be himself. And as much as he wanted to be able to ask Snape more about his parents, he also wanted Snape to see him for _him_ , not for them. And, what’s more, he wanted Snape to care about _just Harry_.

He wanted it more than he’d ever thought possible.

His lips twitched into a wry smile. If his self of only one month ago were here, he’d never believe the direction of his thoughts. He’d probably theorize that Voldemort had placed some sort of bewitching curse on him. Something that would chase away all rational thought and make the most insane ideas come to mind. Like caring about Snape caring about him. He laughed.

“You gave him the will to fight, Harry,” said Other Harry, his own lips curving into a smile. “You gave him a living soul to fight for rather than a dead soul to make amends to. And in doing so, you showed Voldemort’s Death Eaters - Malfoy in particular - the strength of your loyalty. When juxtaposed with Voldemort’s tenuous sanity and irrational choices, your strength gave them a glimpse of what your side offers that their side does not.”

Harry was still smiling as he considered this. It was hard to imagine that what went on between him and Snape would matter to the other Death Eaters, but he’d take Other Harry’s word for it. That brought something else to his mind. “You once said...” he paused, considering his words. “You told me that not all ways of fighting are straightforward or as simple as using a sword. You weren't talking about strategy. You were talking about people...weren't you? About love, and trust, and forgiveness. About how powerful they can be.”

“They can topple nations,” Other Harry agreed.

“Yeah,” said Harry thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess maybe they could.”

Other Harry gave him a small smile and then stood, raising his face to the sun. “I cannot maintain this state for you indefinitely. If not for your increased powers, I might not have been able to at all. I’ll give you as long as I can, but then your mind will revert to how it was before. It will revert to its potion-induced state.”

Harry looked down and sighed. He didn’t want that. It scared him to be so defenseless and confused. Snape hadn’t told him that the effects on his mind would be as frightening as the effects on his body. Then again, maybe Snape didn’t know. It _was_ a new formulation.

“Will I see you again?” he thought to ask before Other Harry could disappear on him.

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I have not seen it. It is possible. It is also possible that you will not have need of me until you are able to access your Seer gift for yourself.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything about that…” Harry fished.

Other Harry held out his hands and shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “If you start seeing the future, you will have your answer.”

“Gee, thanks,” grumbled Harry good-naturedly. “So helpful.”

“You know everything you need to know now, Harry,” he said. “You have done well, and I believe that you will continue to do well. Do not lose faith. You _can_ win this war.”

Looking at his mirror image, at the ferocity and resolve in his eyes, Harry started to believe it. He had a path forward now. He would soon have “a power the Dark Lord knows not.” And he had a guide, a teacher to help him become the victor of both prophecies. A spark of hope rose in his chest and took root. For the first time, he believed - truly believed - that he had a fighting chance. And though Voldemort might know about their connection, and though he had to have some idea of Harry’s increasing powers after that full moon display, his pride would keep him from understanding all that both things meant until it was too late to stop his downfall.

It was Voldemort’s own fault, really. If he hadn’t marked Harry as his equal that fateful night, and if he hadn’t determined to use Harry’s blood to increase his own powers, he never would have had an enemy capable of taking him down. Harry wouldn’t have had access to the very powers Voldemort longed to keep for himself.

It was the most glorious irony that in his quest to kill Harry and then to bring him low, he had instead turned Harry into the one person with the power to defeat him.

“Good-bye, Harry,” said his Inner Eye with a proud smile.

He had no sooner said an answering “good-bye” and “thank you” - with an answering smile - before he was alone. He was tempted to close his eyes and enjoy the ocean breeze, but he knew that he would soon be in darkness again, where he wouldn’t be able to see or smell or touch or even think straight. So he savored the scenery. He took in the way the grass swayed gently in the breeze and how bits of sun reflected off of both the roof of the cottage and the ocean waves, making it look like they were dancing in sync with one another. He memorized the pattern that the rocks made in the earth and the way the light shifted each time the tree branches waved back and forth. He breathed in deeply of grass and salt and sunshine, and he could still taste it on his tongue when the vision began to fade away into darkness.

With the darkness to his senses came the darkness to his mind. And with that darkness came the fear. And the cold. He shivered from both.

He knew something important, something he should be thinking about, but he couldn’t remember. Did it have to do with Snape? The man’s face swam in his thoughts frequently. But so did Voldemort’s. He should know where he was. He knew that he knew where he was, but it was just outside his mind, just outside his reach.

He wasn’t dead. He was certain of that. How, he didn’t know. But he was certain.

What creatures lurked in the darkness? Were they just outside his reach, like his thoughts? It was scary, having a mind but not knowing what was in it, having a body but not being able to feel it. And most of all, not knowing if it would ever end. Not knowing if he had been here for minutes or for days. Or years. It could have been years since he’d begun that thought.

His mind swam with half-thoughts and questions without answers and fears without release, and on and on it went until he was vaguely certain he was an old man with whiskers and wrinkly skin. And then in one instant, it stopped.

He could _smell_. The darkness was less dark. Sounds reached his ears, though he couldn’t make them out. He latched onto the scents in the air, for he knew them. Clove. Dirt. Lilac.

He took a deep breath and found his long-awaited relief, cradled in familiar arms and surrounded by the scent of safety.


	47. The Spy (Snape’s Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is told from Snape’s POV, and it is also my longest chapter to date! Enjoy!

Pain. He is first aware of the pain, then of silence. Light shines on his closed eyelids, drawing him from a deep sleep. Through the haze, his mind fights for control, regaining its sharpness with years of well-honed practice. This is not the first time he has been punished by the Dark Lord; he knows how to survive. Avoid panic. Think clearly. Observe before acting. Show no emotion, save what those around him wish to see.

And above all, trust no one.

He keeps his breathing as even as possible. Listens, hears nothing. Smells the air with one careful, even breath. Musty air tinged with herbs and cooked meat greets his nostrils. He is indoors, possibly a residence. He is lying on something soft, covered by a comfortable blanket. He is with friends? Perhaps. Not guaranteed.

Despite his closed eyes, he detects that the light is dim. Artificial. It is either night or he is in an inner room, no windows. There. A sound. A slight rustling. Paper. The pages of a book. He is not alone. He manages to not physically tense, though his senses go on high alert. A throat clears. A body shifts. Silence. Another page turns. He waits, needing more information before he can act. And yet he is prepared to react swiftly, should an attack come without warning.

He is alive. Despite his attempt to appear confident, he had known there was a chance that the plan would not work, that the Dark Lord would order his body immediately destroyed or that the poison would irreversibly work its way through his system before Lucius could administer the antidote. But his initial plans had gone awry, and he had had no choice left but to place his hopes in his last tenuous possibility of success. A long shot, but a risk well worth taking to save Potter…

Potter. A buzz of panic shoots through his body, quickly overridden by rational thought. Wherever he is, the boy is not here. First step: determine what this room is, who is in here with him. Second step: determine Potter’s location. Third step: develop a plan to get from this room to Potter. Fourth step: don’t fail. Don’t die. Don’t let Potter die.

If only plans were ever so simple.

“You are a good spy, Severus,” a familiar voice breaks the silence, “but I know you far too well to be deceived by your sleeping act.”

Lucius.

He opens his eyes without hesitation. He is in a small room. Unfamiliar. Unassuming. A cottage, perhaps, but large enough to have an interior room without windows. Lucius sits in an armchair with a book opened in front of him, eyes skimming over the page with a practiced air of boredom. Severus is not fooled. _He_ knows _Lucius_ far too well for that. The man is agitated, uncertain. He is not reconsidering his choice, but he regrets having had to make it.

It is that familiar well-disguised agitation, at least, that assures him that Lucius is himself, not an impostor.

“You managed to smuggle me out,” Severus says and hates the telltale rasp of his tired voice. He sits up slowly, his muscles screaming at him to stay still, but he has far too much practice ignoring his body’s complaints to begin to listen to them now. “You have my gratitude.”

Lucius waves a few graceful fingers in the air. “Draco would have my head if he had to start all over with a new Head of House,” he drones in his supercilious way. “I do so abhor family discord.”

Severus accepts the deflection. It is their way. To openly acknowledge anything in the way of a friendship that is tenuous at best would complicate matters. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere the Dark Lord will not think to look.” Lucius gives up on the book, tossing it aside on the small table next to his chair. He studies Severus for a long moment, and Severus lets him. Neither of them are men to be pushed. Their mutual understanding of that fact has been key to their ability to work together almost seamlessly for so many years. “I underestimated the boy’s faith in you.”

 _So did I_ , he adds silently but has better sense than to say it out loud. Lucius has too many misgivings already. Potter’s unexpected show of loyalty has swayed the man into a decision, though he is still wary of Dumbledore, still wary of the Order. But what is his alternative? Severus can see the gravity of the man’s choice in his eyes. He has too much at stake, too much riding on this. And, now decided, Lucius will not turn back from his chosen path.

He loves his family too much to risk it.

And that is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? That is where the Dark Lord underestimates not only his enemies, but his followers - particularly those of his inner circle. He fails to predict the impact of love on their decisions. And on their loyalties. He assumes them to be like himself. Creed above all else. Loyalty to the cause. Loyalty to _himself_. He fails to take into account the love of a man for a woman, a father for a son, a brother for a sister.

That failing cost him Severus’s loyalty so many years ago, when Lily was threatened. And now, with Draco nearing the age of service to an increasingly unstable and murderous Dark Lord, that same failing is costing him Lucius’s loyalty as well. The man’s doubts had been warring within him since the moment he escaped from Azkaban to be “welcomed” back to the fold with torture and distrust. Severus had only had to prey on those doubts. Doubts of his position within the Dark Lord’s ranks, doubts of his son’s future, doubts for his wife’s safety. Doubts that the rumors of the prophecy surrounding Harry Potter may be true - that the boy perhaps really did have some hidden quality foretold to bring about the end of their master. Doubts that the Dark Lord might even bring about his own end by his increased erraticism. If the Order wins this war, the best outcome Lucius can possibly hope for is a lifetime in Azkaban, and with it the inability to protect his family from the fallout. If, on the other hand, the Dark Lord prevails, he will watch his only son be conscripted into the service of a creature, more monster than man, who will bend his will to his own until little of Draco Malfoy remains. _If_ Draco lives that long.

Neither option is quite so palatable as appealing to the Order for protection and clemency. Severus is no simpleton; he knows that Lucius’s loyalty will never shift so far as to embrace the Order’s ideals or to become Dumbledore’s new full-time spy. He is, however, counting on one incontrovertible fact: Lucius’s love for his family is greater than his loyalty to the Dark Lord. As Severus himself is still alive, his gamble has obviously paid off.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he asks.

“Two days.” Lucius smoothly crosses one leg over the other, appearing relaxed to anyone less observant than Severus…which includes nearly everyone. “Your body took longer than expected to expel the poison. Most likely due to your injuries.”

“I don’t suppose you thought to heal some of them,” Severus growls, testing out the limited movement of one arm and then the other. He knows that it would be risky to take too many healing potions with the poison in his system, but he is in pain. And when he is in pain, he lashes out. More so than usual, that is.

Lucius motions dismissively at Severus’s body. “Inadvisable with such a poison as the one I gave you, Severus. As you well know. However, I managed a nerve reparation spell before you awoke. Combined with pain potions and a bit of time, it should suffice until you are back at Hogwarts and able to be seen by that dowdy mediwitch Dumbledore employs.”

He does the math. Today is the 30th of August. In two days’ time, the Hogwarts Express will relay its students to the school to begin a new term. Albus will no doubt be making arrangements for Severus’s Potions class, though that is among the least of his concerns. The headmaster will be worried, but he will not have given up hope. Not yet. He must be informed of developments. He must also be informed of Potter’s discovery about the Weasley boy.

“I require parchment and an owl.”

Lucius nods. “Of course.”

Severus rises from the bed, testing his feet and then his legs. He aches everywhere, unable to move without pain, but he can walk. If he can walk, he can find Potter. “Where is the boy?”

“Under guard,” Lucius says shortly and rises from his chair. He would never say so out loud, but Severus knows that he abhors being towered over by an inferior. And as much as Severus has shown his worth, has proved his mettle and his intelligence in Lucius’s eyes, the wealthy pureblood would never go so far as to consider a low-born half-blood his full equal. Severus stopped openly displaying his bitterness about such slights long ago. Lucius always has been and always will be a condescending prat. That will never change. But he does wonder, not for the first time, how much Lucius knows of the Dark Lord’s own origins. Their conversations have never quite strayed there. Severus had had a cover to protect, after all.

But such thoughts are of no benefit to their current predicament. He waves an impatient hand. “Where is he being kept? Who guards him? How many? I trust you know when the guard changes.”

“So eager,” murmurs Lucius patronizingly. “With every day that passes, the Dark Lord becomes more certain that the Order has no way to attempt a rescue. In time - a few weeks or months, perhaps - he will relax his guard even further. Someone will make a mistake. I’ll be there when they do, disguised, of course, and-”

“ _I’ll_ be there,” Severus interrupts, “and I see no benefit in allowing prolonged access to the boy and his blood.”

“You do know that it would be simpler to leave things to time and my-”

“I’ll see him for myself,” he insists. He knows that a one-man, inside-job rescue may be less detectable in theory, but his trust in Lucius only goes so far. And this is _his_ responsibility. _He_ turned his back on the boy when his protection was most needed. He thinks his nightmares might always be haunted by the memory of that day. The pull of the ring, accompanied by an immediate flare of anger that Potter would dare use it only to plead his self-centered case - even while he answered its call - followed closely by the flurried confusion of a fading, snake-bit Lupin. Horror as a familiar-looking snake carefully pushed Potter’s abandoned wand into his line of sight. He put together the pieces quickly then, ran through all possible scenarios, despite Lupin’s inability to be questioned or Legilimized. It hadn’t been strictly necessary to stun the incapacitated man, but it gave him great satisfaction to do so. He had briefly considered leaving him to die, but both Dumbledore and Potter would no doubt have frowned on such an action. _Noble, self-righteous Gryffindors_. And so he left the werewolf to Kneader’s care and resigned himself to the man’s likely recovery.

He rubs his aching temples at the memory of the fruitless search that followed, of the guilt that had settled deep in his chest and the horror of knowing who had the boy…of knowing what they would be doing to him. And most unsettling of all, the worry. He is Severus Snape, logical professor, skilled spy, and one of the most highly regarded Potions masters in all of Europe. He isn’t supposed to _worry_ over the wellbeing of insufferable teenagers. And yet he cannot categorize the unfamiliar feeling in any other way. Merlin forbid he has gone soft. And for _Harry Potter_ , of all people. The boy has always weaseled his way into places where he didn’t belong. He wasn’t supposed to weasel his way into Severus’s affections. Severus doesn’t even _have_ affections.

Or so he’s always thought.

Regardless, when they find the boy, he will be there. He shoots Lucius a look that insists he get his way, and the man answers with a nod. He walks slowly but proudly past Lucius to the door, needing to use the facilities, write a missive, and fill his stomach with food and water. Quickly, though. They have much to discuss, much to plan. His lapse in judgment got Potter into this mess; it is his responsibility to get him out.

* * *

“The Dark Lord believes you to be dead. That will work to our advantage.”

“Yes. However did you manage that?” asks Severus between steady spoonfuls of broth. He can guess at Lucius’s methods, and he would most likely be correct, but he prefers to hear for himself. “He was angry enough to have demanded my body destroyed immediately.”

Lucius shrugs from across the small table, and it annoys Severus, as it always does, that it adds to his sophisticated air rather than distracting from it. “I had another body waiting in the wings. Your little boy caused quite the commotion. A few well-placed spells of distraction as he was subdued, allowing for a substitution spell, etcetera.” He lifts an eyebrow from across the small kitchen table. “You are not the only wizard skilled in the art of subtlety and deception, you know.”

He unwraps each piece of information in his mind. Body. Commotion. Substitution. He requires clarification on all points.

“Whose body?” Murder is as good a place to begin as any.

“Crabbe,” Lucius says casually. “A few alterations, an appearance duplication charm combined with a mimicry spell for your clothing and injuries, and he made for a quite adequate and dead Severus Snape. Our lord was too distracted by both victory and anger to believe he could have been fooled again so soon.”

“You killed Crabbe.” It does not surprise Severus, but it is unfortunate. When Lucius had agreed to help him infiltrate the Dark Lord’s stronghold - albeit with no further offer of assistance at the time - they had together captured and sedated Crabbe. Murder had not been on the agenda. He has no soft spot for the man or his son, but as the latter’s Head of House, he may be forced to provide some semblance of sympathy. Highly inconvenient, as he himself played a part in events leading up to the man’s death.

“He saw too much,” Lucius says without apology. “If he had not glimpsed my involvement, perhaps he would have lived. As it is, I could not have him informing the Dark Lord of my betrayal, now could I?” Lucius smirks. “Do not tell me that the Order has completely overwritten your moral code, Severus. His would hardly be the first death in service to our ends.”

No, he admits to himself. No, Crabbe’s was only one in a line of deaths he could feel responsible for. He had been careful to limit the cost of this war, but it _was_ war, after all. Not all deaths could be avoided. Some could, but not all.

“ _His_ death could have been avoided,” he points out, more for himself than for Lucius, but Lucius waves the comment away. Having already justified the necessity of his actions to himself, he does not need Severus’s approval. And while Severus does not, in fact, approve, he knows it is useless to quibble over a corpse. He moves on.

“And after my ‘death’?” he asks and takes a sip of water. He has only managed to eat a small amount of broth, but it was enough to satiate his hunger. The water soothes his parched throat. “You mentioned a commotion.”

Lucius leans back, amusement in his eyes. “As you well know, Severus, I had my doubts about the boy and his faith in _you_ , of all people. It seemed highly unlikely, considering the tales of your interactions I hear from Draco, but I freely admit that I was mistaken.”

“Get to the point,” Snape growls. He wants information, not exposition on the boy’s admittedly remarkable capacity for loyalty.

“You did not mention that you had grown _close_ with the boy,” Lucius summarizes his point and looks at him expectantly…much like a vulture would eye its dying prey.

Severus takes a measured sip of water. He knows to tread lightly. Lucius may be willing to turn on the Dark Lord in exchange for amnesty and protection, but he will never turn _honorable_. If the man surmises that Severus and Potter are close in any substantial way, he will tuck that information away for later use, should Severus one day become an adversary. It has served him well thus far to have no loved ones, no one who could be used by his foes to get to him. It would not do for Lucius to put Potter into that category. Not that Potter falls into that category. Or does he..? No. No, of course not. But...he does fall into _a_ category, does he not? The boy has managed to inch his way into Severus’s life in a way he has no understanding how to categorize. He has no past experience by which to measure what the boy means to him, no lens through which to gauge their relationship.

All he knows is that the thought of Lucius using Harry Potter in service of a plot against Severus has him reconsidering his stance on unnecessary murder.

“And what brings you to such a conclusion?” He knows better than to confirm it but also better than to outright deny it. He casually takes another sip of water.

Lucius smiles. “I trust my own eyes, Severus. Perhaps you would like to see what I saw in that clearing? I am certain my cousin Roderick has a Pensieve we could utilize. Hmm. No? Very well then. It might have moved you to tears to see Potter’s display as you ‘died’ before him. He overpowered all of us for a brief time, the Dark Lord included. Such power, such mindless rage. Such depth of feeling…such inconsolable grief.” His smile deepens, and with it the predatory glint in his eyes. “And all for you.”

“He overpowered the Dark Lord?” he asks, brows raised, though he is less surprised about that than about the boy’s strong reaction to his supposed death. He had clearly underestimated the degree to which he would be affected. He had known the boy would react, of course, had hated himself for the pain he had been about to put him through. The boy himself had told him of his greatest fear, after all - the death of those around him, and of feeling responsible for those deaths - and he had known the boy would blame himself. But he justified his choice to himself, as the response needed to be genuine. The Dark Lord could not suspect Severus of subterfuge, as would have resulted from a less than convincing reaction by Potter. And he convinced himself that all would be well in the end. The boy would know the truth before long. Still, he wonders if knowingly putting Potter through that ordeal is one more thing he will forever look back upon with shame.

Despite his attempts to deflect, he knows the look in Lucius’s eyes. He will not easily be persuaded to abandon his idea that Potter and Severus share a bond. To deny it would only add to his certainty. And Severus cannot trust himself to adequately deny it. The boy has unsettled him over these past weeks. He has found himself reconsidering past certainties, uncovering new realities, and taking an active interest in the welfare of James Potter’s son…of Lily’s son…of a boy who has somehow managed to be so much like his mother and yet so much his own person. And now, presented with incontrovertible proof that Potter has grown attached to him in ways he was never meant to do…an attachment that he shouldn’t have been capable of forming, considering their past…

He is mentally and emotionally drained, and he wonders if it would be so for a normal person. No doubt his heart is atrophied from lack of use. He had never expected to pull it out from the cobwebbed corners of his body, much less to put it to use again, and lately every day in Potter’s company brings a new struggle between his shrunken heart and the walls he has carefully erected around it. He’d thought they were impenetrable, and then the boy had to do the unthinkable and _forgive_ him. The nerve. The audacity. The…the generosity, the pureness of spirit. _He_ would not have been capable of such forgiveness. He doubts that even his beloved Lily would have done so. That such capacity exists in the heart of a sixteen-year old boy whom he had actively derided and hated for so many years is perhaps the most humbling realization of his life.

But then the boy compelled him with those ridiculously innocent green eyes to admit to things that he’d sworn never to tell a living soul. He had admitted… _things_. Personal things. About himself, about Lily. That the boy did not mock him, as he had braced himself for - that he had almost wished for, in a familiarly twisted, self-loathing sort of way - was perhaps the greatest gift he could remember receiving. But still…knowing that his confession is known to someone outside his own soul makes him feel bared, naked, vulnerable. He _loathes_ feeling vulnerable. And he is fairly certain he would not have allowed himself to become so if he hadn’t seen his death looming in front of him.

But he didn’t die, did he? And neither did Potter. He cannot help the overwhelming feeling of dread that courses through his body at the realization that Potter _knows_. Potter _knows_ and they both _live_.

It occurs to him that Obliviating a student is a fireable offense. Punishable by a stint in Azkaban.

He thinks it might be worth it.

No, even while he thinks it, he knows he will not do it. He mentally curses both Dumbledore and Potter for causing him to care about not violating their trust. _Noble, self-righteous Gryffindors, rubbing off in the most irksome of ways_. But…but also…surprisingly, there is a feeling of freedom in knowing that his secret is out and the world did not crumble around him. He never imagined that it would not. And, never foreseeing such an impossibility as forgiveness from Potter, he likewise never foresaw that the inevitable dread and the vulnerability could be offset by a deep feeling of relief. He is not wholly unburdened…but he feels lighter than he did before. Lighter than a man like him has a right to feel.

But he has learned to compartmentalize, learned to show only what he intends to show to the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, and so his thoughts remain hidden. Lucius searches his face but finds no answers. And the man never did take the time to learn Legilimency. Not that it would have served him well when up against Severus’s well-trained mind.

With a final smirk, a show of annoyed defiance rather than of victory, Lucius abandons his line of questioning and allows the deflection. “The Dark Lord was not rendered unconscious, but he was incapacitated for a time. I do not know what the Potter boy did to him, but it caused him pain.” There is a question in his voice. Lucius wants answers, but he is intelligent enough to know that he is not likely to get them.

Severus mentally scoffs, setting his mind back on track. He is in possession of very few answers himself. Once he retrieves Potter and ensures that he is safe from further capture, he will give in to worries - there is that increasingly familiar concept again - of what such bursts of power mean for the boy, what it means for the stability of his magical core or the connection that he shares with the Dark Lord. But it will not do to dwell on such things yet. Retrieve him now. Look for answers later.

“He is still utilizing Potter’s blood?”

Lucius inclines his head. “It has been taken only once since the ceremony. He seems content for now. With you out of the picture, he is no longer overly anxious. He does not believe anyone else in the Order capable of locating him, and he has reduced the guard accordingly. One man outside the door. Four sentries at the exterior of the manor. In addition to the wards.”

“Yes. The wards,” Severus murmurs absently. He rubs his hand across several days’ growth of stubble on his face. It only serves to remind him that time will not stand still while they talk and plan. He has already sent off a coded letter to Albus. And he has assessed the state of the boy’s captivity through Lucius.

It is time for action.

Not rash action, but a plan of action. He will not allow the Dark Lord any more access to Potter than he has had already. And he refuses to see the boy process that he has lost any substantial amount of time to the potion that Severus himself developed. So they will act. As soon as…

“When do you take your turn as guard?”

Lucius scoffs. “Do you think me so daft as to allow you to take him on my watch? No. If I am to help you, then I will also benefit from the arrangement.”

“You _are_ benefiting from the arrangement,” Severus points out dryly. “That is the entire point.”

Lucius shrugs his annoyingly aristocratic shrug and leans forward, a glint of pure hate in his eyes. “I have another, more immediate benefit in mind.”

Ah. Severus smirks. “Bellatrix,” he guesses. Her place as the Dark Lord’s most trusted follower was assured the instant Lucius fell from grace at the Department of Mysteries. It was solidified after the discovery of Severus’s betrayal. Lucius could stomach Severus outshining him for a brief time - he, at least, is worthy of a professional respect - but he must be seething at having been replaced by such an uncouth sycophant as Bellatrix Lestrange. His snobbish sensibilities have no doubt been reeling all summer.

Truth be told, Severus also would not object to knocking the odious woman from her position of favor. Her eyes are as sharp as her tongue, while her moral compass is duller than a teaspoon. Not that he has anything to brag about there. But he does have _some_ principles…and the thought of bringing her low does not contradict a single one. He remembers her taunts to Potter, the way she brought his Lily into it, and his eyes narrow. He also pulls up the memory of another Death Eater, a full-grown man, kicking a defenseless boy, of the helpless feeling of watching as that same man later dragged the boy from his sight, to do who-knows-what to him, and rage boils beneath the surface.

He nods. They are in agreement. Just one more thing… “I don’t suppose Nott will also be on duty?” he asks smoothly.

Lucius smiles.

* * *

Dumbledore responds to the letter immediately, as Severus knew he would. The headmaster’s relief is apparent even through his brevity. Details will wait. For now, he trusts Severus to see to Potter while he sees to the Weasley boy and the start of term.

“The masking and concealment wards are of no concern,” Lucius interrupts his thoughts, studying a rudimentary sketch he has drawn of the manor’s grounds. “Obviously. I can get us to the manor. Nothing can be done about the anti-Apparition wards. As for the rest, he has relaxed some in light of your ‘death,’ and I can easily dismantle or bypass others, as I helped to put them in place. There is only one other protection we need concern ourselves with: the Mind Link Spell.”

Severus absently toys with his wand, newly returned to him by Lucius. He is grateful to have it back, even more grateful to find that the enchantment placed upon it was simple to break. Holding his own wand after so long is empowering. He feels whole again, powerful, ready to engage in battle. “All of the guards will be linked then?”

Lucius nods. “If one sees us or is taken down, the rest will instantly know.”

His fingers still on the wand. “Which means that we need to take them out simultaneously unless we want to risk them summoning the Dark Lord.”

“May I remind you, there are two of us and five of them,” points out Lucius, though he manages to sound unconcerned by their disadvantage. “I may be a highly skilled wizard, but I have not yet mastered the art of being in two or three places at once.”

“Pity.”

Lucius leans back in his chair, considering. “We could impersonate two of our ranks not on duty. Fool some of them into congregating.”

Severus is shaking his head before his companion finishes speaking. “Using Crabbe was risky enough. The Dark Lord may think me dead, but he still fears the possibility of further betrayal. He will have taken steps to ensure what I did does not happen again so soon.” He does not say that he also does not wish to be responsible for the possibility of more bodies being left in Lucius’s wake. Even if they are Death Eater bodies. Severus is capable of murder, but he does not wish to be party to it. He prefers to leave the killing to battle.

Lucius narrows his eyes. “I will _not_ be present _as myself_ on the night that Harry Potter is spirited away. I do not have a death wish.”

“Perhaps you should not be _present_ at all,” retorts Severus. He continues before Lucius can argue that point. “You will see to the wards and wait for me near the Apparition boundary. I will attempt to retrieve Potter without alerting the guards to my presence. Should I fail, I will endeavor to cause a sufficient enough distraction for you to complete the task. A simple Disillusionment Charm should suffice, with their attention diverted, and if you work quickly enough. They will not suspect that I am not working alone, and they may be far too thrilled to have thwarted me to call for the Dark Lord before they’ve had their fun.”

“And precisely how do you intend to sneak past five guards?”

“I only need bypass two if I select the most advantageous entry point.”

“Three,” corrects Lucius. “Perhaps even four. A guard is posted at either side of the manor, another posted at the door to the cellar where the boy is kept. The fourth and fifth guards will be making their rounds around the perimeter, and occasionally through the hallway to the cellar. Random, to prevent possible intruders from predicting their whereabouts.”

Severus narrows his eyes. “That complicates matters.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Lucius drawls in a way that brings Draco to mind, and he returns to his map, outlining the path to the boy’s prison for Severus to follow. Sometimes, at the most random of times, Severus is taken aback by how alike father and son are. Draco hero-worships his father, emulating him in as many positive ways as negative. It is as far from the relationship Severus had with his own father as he can possibly imagine. He did adopt many of the elder Snape’s personality traits, he admits, but never on purpose. He more often went out of his way to prove to himself and to the world that he was nothing like the man. It had been easy for him to assume that all happy boys - boys he categorized as having had a Malfoy rather than a Snape upbringing - had an inclination toward paternal emulation.

Even an orphaned Potter boy.

One of his many mistakes was in assuming Potter to be a happy child. He is more happy than his childhood has given him cause to be, but Severus can now see in the boy’s mind what he had prevented himself from seeing before…the same thing that he had all too often seen reflected in the mirror from his own eyes before he’d grown up and accepted that happiness was not to be his lot in life.

Longing. Longing for family, for acceptance, for belonging. For love.

He thinks even the boy himself does not realize how intricately those emotions are tied to nearly every thought, memory, or decision that passes through his mind. Longing for what he has never had is so natural to him, like breathing, that he forgets he is doing it most of the time.

He did not expect to have to consciously harden himself against the boy through the course of their Occlumency lessons. It had been his natural state for so long, and that it would suddenly take effort to keep it up was an unfamiliar concept. But the things he has seen in Potter’s mind…things about himself… He had been startled - frightened may be more apt - by the revelation that Potter could see him _that_ way, could see him as a protector, as someone to cling to when he needed comfort. He has never been that for _anyone_ , doesn’t know _how_ to be that for someone, and he had not known what to do with that knowledge.

Potter has begun to frighten him as little else has been able to do, even more so now that he cares what happens to him. Yes, he can admit that much to himself. He cares not only what happens to him bodily, but what happens to his spirit. And ironically, now that he can stomach to be around him - has found himself enjoying Potter’s company, even - he realizes that to encourage their newfound closeness to continue will only harm the boy’s spirit. Severus does not know how to comfort or to heal, only to hurt. Potter would only emerge damaged in the end. The boy should already know that, and yet he remains naive to the reality before him. It is up to Severus to protect the boy. It is up to him to pull away. His hope is that he can do so naturally, without Potter objecting or feeling the brunt of his withdrawal. After they are safely back at Hogwarts, the boy will return to his friends and his routine. Dumbledore will take on his instructions in the mental arts, and he will be surrounded by numerous far less damaged professors. Severus will continue to protect him from the shadows, but Potter will find someone else to worry over him, to care for him, and to help him to heal. He will not forget what he has learned about Severus, but he will keep what he has learned to himself. Though little should surprise him anymore, Severus is shocked to discover that he trusts the boy to do so.

He wonders when the sky began to fall and why the earth is still spinning as if nothing had changed.

* * *

In the end they settle on stealth rather than force. As satisfying as it would be to take out Nott and Lestrange, they stand a better chance of getting the boy out alive if no one knows they are there. The Death Eaters will be unlikely to expect a silent, undetectable foe, and with Lucius’s knowledge of the wards and Severus’s aptitude for stealth - not to mention his knowledge of the Death Eaters’ psyches and weaknesses - silent and undetectable they will be.

To personally take down the two detestable Death Eaters would have been thoroughly enjoyable, but it is no small consolation that the Dark Lord will be more furious at his followers if they are outwitted rather than overpowered.

It does _not_ help Severus’s state of mind that they must wait. Days pass, then a week, before the Dark Lord has relaxed his presence at the manor, the appropriate guards are on duty, and Lucius is willing to dismantle what wards he can without being detected. While it does allow Severus’s body to begin to heal, his patience is at its breaking point. He does not know which will give out first: the creaky wooden floorboards from his pacing or the scratched surface of the table from his finger tapping. He breaks a cup - a ridiculous floral teacup with irritatingly chipper-looking birds - and feels marginally better.

The school year has begun, he realizes. It has started without him, and he feels pity for Potter having to begin one of the most intensive years of his studies by playing catch-up to his classmates. He passes some of the time by devising a study schedule for the boy that he will no doubt hate. The silver lining is that word will have reached the Dark Lord that Potions classes have been delayed. He will naturally assume that Dumbledore has yet to find a replacement for Severus - or even that the headmaster does not yet know the fate of his Potions professor - and the reminder that he is dead will lift the dark wizard’s spirits. His followers will follow suit. High spirits equal less vigilant guards.

It is an advantage that he will gladly use.

He has been stuck at the cottage for far too long, sequestered with his thoughts. The chance of being seen, of his survival being reported, is something he is not willing to risk until after Potter is safe, and so he stays hidden. Lucius leaves for long stretches of time. He must, in order to see to his family and to display to the Dark Lord that nothing is amiss. It occurs to Severus to ask if Draco thinks him dead, but he finds that he cares little for the answer and refocuses on plans for the upcoming rescue. It is not that he cares nothing for Draco. He has known the child since his birth, after all. The boy has much to learn about life and prejudices and self-control, but he is intelligent and a fair hand at Potions. There is even a sense of pride when Draco excels at something Severus has taught him. No, it is not that Severus cares nothing for the boy’s wellbeing; it is that Draco has no need of it. He has a mother to coddle him and a father to keep him in line. He has no practical use for Severus’s sympathies. As he is not a man to extend his energies where they are not needed, he rarely wastes them on the younger Malfoy.

He resumes his pacing, and his mind returns to thoughts of Potter. So often, to thoughts of Potter. And of Lily, but mainly of Potter.

Over and over he paces, sits, taps fingers, and ruminates on all things Potter and plans and stealth and how to catch up his Potions students to where they should be by the end of term and how to keep Potter on track with his schoolwork while extricating himself from his life and his confusion that he should feel so conflicted at the thought of extricating himself from the boy’s life. It is for the best, he knows, and yet he finds himself regretting the necessity of doing so, and he is frustrated by such thoughts, for they make no practical sense. He _knows_ why it is necessary, and he typically has no trouble acting on decisions that are necessary. He breaks the annoyingly bright saucer that matched the teacup - on purpose this time - but the distraction lasts for a moment before his thoughts and pacing and finger tapping continue…

Until finally, it is time.

* * *

“I see him,” Severus whispers before Lucius can point out where Pettigrew slouches in the darkness outside the front door to the manor. He doesn’t know what the Dark Lord is thinking, putting that imbecile on guard duty, but it is telling that he is guarding the front door, not the back where an infiltration is more likely. The Dark Lord has chosen this lair well, for there is no other access point that can be easily breached from the outside. The windows are too high, the landscape in between the front and back entrances too thorny and overgrown to allow for stealth.

Granted, it is risky to waltz in at the front door, but they agree that Pettigrew is the easier target. Unfortunately, the other guards appear to know this as well, as the roaming sentries make it a point to check on the access point frequently.

Lucius slinks back, a dark cloak disguising him adequately even before he withdraws into the darkness of the trees. He has determined the locations and identities of the guards on duty, and he has dismantled what wards he can. His part is done until Severus returns with the boy…unless, of course, Severus fails.

No, he will not fail. He cannot fail.

He crouches low in his black robes, waiting until a sentry passes before he slinks across a stretch of open ground and takes cover behind the shrubbery not far from Pettigrew’s post. He has been watching, and he knows that the sentries truly are operating in a random fashion. The one that passed - Grouen, a new recruit - could just as easily double back in seconds as make a full circle of the manor before reappearing. Severus remains as still as the crumbling statues in the abandoned garden nearby, waiting for the slightest sound of approaching footsteps. At least the sentries are not masters of stealth. It is ridiculous that the Dark Lord would not require that skill of more of his followers. It is one more indication of how cocky he has become. Cocky _and_ paranoid - a conflicting and yet dangerous combination.

Pettigrew is yawning where he leans against the stone wall. He has a short attention span, something that works in their favor. If Severus knows him at all - and he does, having made it a point to study every Death Eater for patterns and weaknesses - he will soon be removing his wand from his cloak. He will begin to practice rudimentary spells, something he does only when he suffers from boredom and believes no one is near to see. It is no secret that Pettigrew’s grasp of magic is clumsy at best.

What will not work in their favor is the large door or the loud creak of its opening or the spell that links Pettigrew’s mind to the others. If Severus is to compel the witless rat to open it, he must ensure that the two roaming sentries are far enough away to give him time to enter before they respond.

He waits, not so much as twitching in the shadows of the manor, as endless moments and another sentry pass by. Pettigrew yawns again and finally withdraws his wand. Severus allows him time to feel comfortable before he inches his own wand from his sleeve, disillusions himself, and sends a silent spell toward the doors of the manor.

A low clink of sound echoes from within. Pettigrew freezes. The leaf he was attempting to levitate drops feebly to the ground. It does not have far to fall.

Severus waits several seconds before repeating the spell.

Even through the near darkness, Pettigrew’s nervousness is apparent. He shuffles his feet, darts his attention to either side of the doors, doubtless hoping for a sentry to appear to do his investigative work for him. He hesitantly inches his way toward the entrance and shakily cracks open a door. Another clink sounds and he flinches, but he must be buoyed by seeing nothing within, and so he opens it wide enough to enter. It creaks loudly on its hinges.

Severus is ready. Other than a small glance for the sentries, Pettigrew’s attention is not behind him, and so he does not see the distortion of light and shadows as the spy slides through the door and slinks into an unused room. He bides his time in the room as the sentries respond and, after a too-brief investigation, berate the simpering fool for overreacting to the typical sounds of the night.

The door closes. Severus is alone.

He wastes no more time. Following the path that Lucius has outlined for him, he turns first to the left and then to the right, and down a short flight of stairs until one more turn will bring him face to face with another Death Eater. He peers around the corner to be sure.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

 _She_ will not be distracted or complacent. She relishes any opportunity to prove herself to their lord. Unlike the sniveling Pettigrew, she will delight in the appearance of an enemy. A challenge, a capture - anything to make her evening more worthwhile and her master more pleased in her worth to him. If not for the Mind Link Spell, he would simply incapacitate her through a surprise attack. Or, if not for her shrewdness, he would distract her as he did Pettigrew. However, though it pains him to do something so lacking in creativity, he and Lucius have decided on a simple sleeping spell. The sentries will immediately head this way to wake her up, but Severus should have just enough time to retrieve the boy and hide near the stairs before they appear…assuming they are not already within the manor. And assuming they believe her to have naturally fallen asleep, not fallen under attack.

He takes a slow breath and flexes his wand hand. Easing around the corner, he sends a silent spell at the unsuspecting woman. She yawns, then scowls, then yawns again. Slowly, so slowly that she tries in vain to stop herself, she slumps to the ground, fast asleep.

He quickly rounds the corner and dives for the door. Taking the steps two at a time, he sprints the short distance toward Potter’s still form.

The boy looks like death. Eyes open and unseeing, pale body dressed only in dirty trousers. Even his feet are bare, and they haven’t bothered to clean him, but why would they? He is an object to them, a vessel to the Dark Lord. Bruises litter his body, but so faded after a full week as to be barely noticeable in the dim light from the open doorway.

Though he wishes to check the boy, or to at least wrap him in the safety and comfort of his robes - his pale skin is like ice - he does not linger. He only closes the boy’s eyes, includes him in the Disillusionment Charm, and gathers him into his arms. He holds him as closely as possible, willing the boy to draw warmth from his body. He marvels, not for the first time, at the boy’s lightness for his age, but this time he welcomes it, as it will allow for the speed necessary to escape.

He is out of the room, up the cellar stairs, and nearly to the end of the hall when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. They are unhurried. Good. They have assumed, then, that she fell asleep of her own accord. Fools. The day Bellatrix Lestrange willingly allows herself to fall asleep while on guard duty, Severus will voluntarily hand himself over to the Dark Lord. He has only enough time to duck into the corner directly opposite the set of stairs leading from the hallway to the main floor before Grouen makes his way down toward him.

He stands perfectly still, calculating that Grouen, not yet alarmed by events, will not look closely into the darkness to see the distortion where he stands with Potter. His calculation pays off. Grouen turns, not once glancing into the corner, and makes his way to the softly snoring Bellatrix.

They have seconds before the Death Eater realizes that she cannot be woken and then checks the empty room for Potter. He silently places a foot on the bottom stair, then hears another sound. Additional footsteps come from above. Another guard is making his way to the stairs, and he knows that even without Potter in his arms, it would be risky to chance passing on the stairs. _With_ Potter, it is impossible to do so undetected. He retreats back into the corner, quickly assessing his options. By the time the new guard reaches the bottom of the stairs, Grouen will have sounded the alarm. If he acts now, he can easily incapacitate the two guards, leaving only the two outside to be dealt with. One, not counting pathetic Pettigrew. He can easily take out Pettigrew. But the ratlike Death Eater is a coward; he is the most likely to call the Dark Lord at the first sight of an intruder. And Severus knows that he will not survive another encounter with his former lord. The dark wizard may even be unhinged enough by now to be willing to sacrifice Potter, should he be in their crosshairs.

He takes a chance and remains hidden, quickly readjusting Potter over his shoulder so that his wand arm is free. It is an uncomfortable balance of weight, but the boy is secure.

Sallow makes his way down the stairs. He appears as unconcerned as Grouen. Imbecile.

Nott is still above ground then. He was to be the second roaming sentry. He and Sallow must have switched. It is another reason to wait for a chance at further stealth. Nott is a more formidable foe than the other three men. He would be best taken out in a surprise attack. He and Severus are too evenly matched in a duel to make for a simple escape. Unless Lucius decides to make an appearance…

Lucius is so afraid to be recognized that Severus considers that likelihood a toss-up. Then again, the man may yet join the fray so long as he can be certain that the end result for those he faces is death. He thinks sardonically that he should have dragged Bellatrix outside as bait. Lucius wouldn’t be able to pass up a chance to get away with cursing her directly.

Sallow barely reaches the last step when Grouen raises the alarm. It is to the benefit of Severus, as the man’s eyes are immediately drawn to the hallway rather than to corner opposite the stairs. Sallow runs to the cellar - again, imbecile - and Severus darts up the staircase as quickly and as silently as he can. But he knows without seeing that he cannot escape the way he entered. Sounds echo through the manor, among them the creak and slam of the front doors.

He sprints as quickly as he can for the third door on the left of the hallway - where Lucius had indicated the old servants’ stairs would be located. He allows himself a single deep breath as he softly shuts the door behind him and makes his way carefully up yet another staircase, this one small, rickety, and curved into a tight space. He adjusts Potter, careful not to bump the boy’s head against the wall, and makes his way up gingerly, slower than he would like, for one misstep will result in either a loud creak or a splintered stair underneath his feet. The sounds of activity from below keep him moving. He ignores the pounding of his heart, keeps his breathing steady. He has lived through enough close calls to know how to keep his composure.

The second floor is abandoned, decayed and crumbled stone in places, and sounds of the alarmed guards echo from below. They will have realized by now that most of the wards have been compromised and that neither the intruder nor Potter’s location can be detected. He makes his way to the room at the end of the hall. He knows that time is of the essence, that they will assume him still in the manor and may call other Death Eaters to join the search before long. He can only hope that Pettigrew has been prevented from calling the Dark Lord. The others will not wish to be punished if they can find the intruder and the boy before their lord hears of their failure.

Reaching the room in one piece, he releases the Disillusionment Charm and lays the boy gently on the floor. He glances out the open window, careful to flatten himself against the wall, should eyes other than Lucius’s be peering up from below. Seeing no one and praying that no one is lurking out of sight, he sends a short burst of sparks from his wand - their agreed upon signal - and is immediately answered with a slight burst of wind from the trees where Lucius hides.

He knows that this is less than ideal, as most Plan C’s are apt to be, but he prepares Potter for an uncomfortable landing. Removing his robe, he wraps it tightly around the boy’s limp body. He cannot stop himself from brushing a grimy lock of hair from the boy’s forehead. It strikes him, as it always does when the boy is asleep in his presence, how _innocent_ he looks. It is those times that bring to mind most clearly his vow to Lily to protect her son. It is also those moments when he realizes how vulnerable and young the boy truly is, that regardless who his parents may have been, he is merely a child in need of guidance and protection. His lips quirk up at the thought of the boy’s typical reaction to being called a child, and he refocuses on the task at hand.

He lifts Potter, shifting him only long enough to cast a Softening Charm on the thorny mess of vines below, and holds him flat against the front of his body as he flings himself out of the window, back first. The rubbery vines cushion his fall, but even a Softening Charm cannot prevent the multitude of thorns from piercing his skin or snagging on his clothing. Lucius is there in an instant, his disillusioned form only detectable by a distortion in the moonlight and the cutting way of vines with his wand. When he is close, Severus reluctantly hands over the boy.

A shout comes from above. A face peers out of the window and voices sound from the main entrance. The door creaks. Footsteps sound.

“Get him to safety,” he clips and Lucius flees to the woods, leaving him to cut himself free from the vines. He is for once grateful that the man is self-motivated, for it means that he will not put his or Potter’s safety at risk to help Severus escape. But Lucius does assist when it will not put himself at risk, and so Severus hears the sound of multiple bodies tripping over an invisible obstruction.

It gives him the time he needs to break free, but not to avoid a painful curse that knocks him off his feet. He rolls over, not missing a beat, and aims a barrage of answering curses toward the small grouping of Death Eaters. One hits its mark and a man falls unconscious to the ground.

“Surrender, Snape!” calls Nott. He has been seen. Without his dark robes, he is easier to see, easier to recognize. No matter. It was only a matter of time before the secret was out.

He answers with a muttered “ _sectumsempra!_ ” but it is blocked.

He rolls to the side in time to avoid a Blasting Curse and jumps to his feet with a silent spell that hits its mark in Sallow, who has just arrived to join the fray and immediately crumples to his knees, screaming in agony as he clutches his burned arm. Grouen is the body on the ground, Pettigrew was there a moment before but is currently nowhere to be seen, and Nott faces him from a short distance away.

“Where are the rest of your friends?” Severus taunts. “Too cowardly to admit to them that you were outwitted by a dead man?”

Nott snarls and lets off a curse that is easily deflected. “They used to be _your_ friends too.”

“Even you are not obtuse enough to believe that. _Flipendo_!”

Nott dodges the curse, inches closer through a volley of exchanged curses as Severus manages to back away a few steps closer to the trees.

“Where is the boy? _Immobilus_!” Nott quickly scans the area, and Severus knows that Lucius has not been seen, that he believes him to be working alone, Potter possibly lying on the ground somewhere close by.

Severus deflects the curse and smirks. “Can’t really kill me until you know, can you?”

Nott answers the question with another “ _immobilus!_ ” proving his lack of imagination, but he has managed it quickly enough that it almost hits its mark. Severus dives to the ground just in time, and he barely shoots off a silent spell before his leg is grazed by a Stinging Hex. He counts himself fortunate that Nott is only trying to incapacitate, not kill, him. If Potter’s whereabouts were not in question, murder would definitely be on his agenda.

He raises his wand, a curse on his lips, when Nott goes suddenly still, dropping face-first to the ground. Severus drops his hand, breathing a heavy sigh. Thank Merlin for Lucius…this time, at least. He rises quickly and darts for the forest, but not before glimpsing Pettigrew through the shrubbery. The cowardly man looks directly at him, slinks away, and places his wand to his Dark Mark.

Severus ignores the searing pain in his leg and runs.

“The Dark Lord-” he gasps for breath as he reaches Lucius’s side just outside the Apparition boundary.

Lucius shoves the boy into his arms - still safely cocooned in Snape’s robes, still looking so damnably innocent. “We must go. Quickly. He will be summoning me shortly.” He Apparates away, leaving Severus to follow.

He does, but not before pulling the boy closer to him, absorbing the shock of Apparition, though the boy will not be conscious for it.

* * *

He has taken Potter back to the cottage. He had briefly considered bringing him straight to Hogwarts, or back to Kneader’s, but it is easier to tend to the boy here, where he has prepared the counter-potion and no Dark Lord will be sniffing about. Lucius is gone; he has Apparated home, no doubt, securing his wife’s alibi for his whereabouts and preparing himself to look as if he has just stepped out of an intimate evening party or some such gathering of the elite set.

Snape wouldn’t know about such things; the Malfoys would never think to invite him to a social event, and he is perfectly satisfied with that arrangement.

He lays the boy on his own bed, casting a warming charm over him and easing the robe from his body so that he can cast a cleaning charm over him. He will still want a shower once he awakens, but the grime is gone, the dried sweat and dirt and traces of blood vanished from his skin. Quickly, he spells the boy into clean clothes. He has none here but those Lucius has provided for him to use; they are large on the boy, but they are comfortable and they will do. He pulls several blankets over him.

The counter-potion takes less than a minute to administer, but the waking up process will be slow. The boy will be groggy, disoriented. Severus pulls up a chair for the long night ahead.

No sooner does he allow himself to breathe in the comfort of his success, than he grunts at a sharp pain in his left arm. Lifting his sleeve, he watches as the Dark Mark awakens and then settles into a slow, steady writhing. The pain dulls but does not stop, does not pass as it does when the forbidden name is mentioned. The Dark Lord knows that his wayward servant is alive, and he is now powerful enough to punish Severus for it every second of every day. He allows himself a moment to close his eyes and grit his teeth against the dull throbbing pain.

But a moment is all he allows himself. He has been in enough pain throughout his thirty-six years of life to know that distraction is the best treatment.

He writes a coded missive to Dumbledore. Informs him of his success, of Potter’s safety. Requests safe passage to Hogwarts in the morning. He then sits back. Studies the boy. The potion has already begun to take effect: the rise and fall of the child’s chest is more noticeable, even through the heavy blankets. He resists and then gives into the urge to brush another wayward lock of hair from the boy’s forehead. His hand lingers. Potter’s skin is still cold, but the blankets and warming charm are doing their work.

He looks so young and harmless, tucked under the covers in oversized pajamas, that Severus can hardly reconcile him with the boy who overpowered the Dark Lord, not once, but multiple times over his recent ordeal. It has been years since Dumbledore entrusted his Potions professor with the truth of the entire prophecy concerning the Boy Who Lived. He was honored by the trust, knowing that the headmaster did not bestow it haphazardly. Perhaps he considered Severus so intricately linked to the boy’s past and future by his vow that he thought it imperative for him to know. Or perhaps he shared it in another misguided attempt to prod Severus into taking a more active interest in the boy’s welfare. He does not know why it was shared; he did not ask. He only knew to feel the sense of duty that such trust requires of a recipient. He did not know to what the “power” of the prophecy referred, and the headmaster did not share his theories, but it is all he can think about in this moment.

For the first time, he allows himself to feel truly awed by the power newly contained in the boy. It was fear he felt when Voldemort began to grow stronger, but Potter’s power does not inspire fear; it inspires awe.

Scratch that. It _does_ inspire fear, but not fear _of_ the boy. No, fear _for_ him. Power can corrupt. He has seen enough of the boy over the past month of paradigm shifts to believe the boy immune to the worst kinds of corruption, but no one is immune to them all. He will need guidance and perspective if he is to maneuver this new mysterious state of his magic. He will need supervision as he learns to navigate it, and he will need monitoring, lest he fall into the traps of guilt and self-condemnation that he is particularly susceptible to. Severus looks away from the boy as a familiar wave of self-loathing rolls over him. Yes, he knows better than most the bitterness that results when such emotions are left unchecked. It may be too late for him, but Potter is still young; his dangerous tendencies toward self-reproach can be yet curbed, can be guided into more productive avenues.

Merlin knows Severus is not the one to teach him how. If anything, he serves as a cautionary tale, an extreme example of the worst outcome of such tendencies. If he tried to take on such responsibility, he would likely only succeed in destabilizing the boy further. No, Dumbledore will guide him, or he will find someone who will. Severus will insist on it. He will keep an eye on the boy, but from a distance.

And he finds himself believing that, given the right guidance, the boy will prevail. He has a courage that Severus has always lumped in with his recklessness. He does possess recklessness - in abundance - but it takes true courage to not cower before an all-powerful Dark Lord, to hold onto his spirit in the face of merciless Death Eaters and no rescue in sight. He had been inexpressibly relieved when he’d seen the boy’s cheeky grin in that prison, and he wonders when that grin’s effect on him changed from revulsion to…not revulsion at all.

He shakes his head, but clearing his mind of such thoughts only serves to emphasize the burning in his arm. He scowls. It is the way of his life, is it not? He is accustomed to pain. He sometimes wonders if he would know how to function without it. Pain serves as a warning and as a motivation. It reminds him not to get too close to objects or to people, that both have a tendency to betray and to harm. It also reminds him that his life will likely not be long, and so he must do his duty as thoroughly and practically as he can in the time that he has.

Pain. Sometimes it is all he has, but it is those times when he appreciates it, for it serves to remind him that he is still alive. And if causing others to share in the pain will keep it fresh, will keep his heart beating, then that is often all the motivation he needs.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he would wake up one day to find that he had no desire to see the person in front of him in pain. Even Dumbledore, who had given him a second chance, and Kneader, who had helped him to heal just enough to grasp that chance, often bore the brunt of his need to lash out. Why is this boy somehow different? He is under no illusions: he _will_ lash out again at the boy; he _will_ cause him further pain - hence why it is necessary to extricate himself - but the pain it will cause to himself is of a different sort: the sort that does not serve to remind him that he lives, but rather serves to remind him that he is already more dead than alive.

He sighs and settles his eyes on the boy - on Harry - as his breathing eases from a cursed state into true sleep. He watches, waiting for the first sign of stirring, but he empties his mind of all thought and focuses on the pain.

He is alive, and the boy is alive, and as long as the former is true, he will ensure the latter continues to be true as well.


	48. Muggle Healing Magic

He felt oddly comfortable. Oddly, because he had a vague idea that maybe he should be afraid, but he wasn’t sure why or of what. He breathed in a familiar earthy scent and felt a heart beating next to his cheek. He smiled, nestling farther into the warmth. He felt _safe_.

Was he dreaming? Occasionally he dreamed about the day he’d gone to school for the first time. It had been drilled into him by then that adults didn’t like him to touch them with his grubby hands, but Mrs. Thompson on the very first day of class gave him _two_ hugs. He had held himself as stiff as a board, not knowing what to do, but by the end of the first week, he had learned that if he leaned into the hugs, she would hold on for a few seconds longer. He loved those moments. Not every teacher hugged him, but Mrs. Thompson always did, even when he moved on to a different grade. He’d been convinced after that year that hugs were infused with magical powers.

Until, that is, he’d learned about the existence of _real_ magic.

But hugs could still be magical, couldn’t they? Maybe they were a holdover from some ancient time when Muggles and wizards lived together in harmony. Maybe when wizards started living in secret, Muggles kept some magical things for themselves. He wondered when Muggles started forgetting that hugs held magic.

His arms twitched, and then his legs, as if they wanted to move but had just realized that he was awake and that they couldn’t move without his telling them to. He had a hazy notion that his arms and legs were planning to revolt. He tried to flex his hands, but they only half listened to him and gave a sort of spasm. He would have been more bothered, but his head was full of a cloudy, comfortable feeling, and he didn’t much want to move anyway.

He became aware of a sound, something that had been there all along but that he was only now noticing. Humming.

Mrs. Thompson didn’t hum. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did sometimes, but their voices had a grating quality to them. And he didn’t like to hear them hum anyway because it meant they were happy, and if they were happy, it was usually over something that was about to make Harry miserable.

This voice didn’t grate on his nerves like theirs did. It relaxed him. It alternated between humming and speaking. He didn’t understand the soft words, but he liked them. He could tell they were meant for him, because he picked out the name “Harry,” and he thought it was trying to tell him something, or to wake him up, maybe.

He opened his eyes, then slammed them shut against a light. Did he sleep past breakfast? Was he late for class? He squinted, leaned his head back, and met a pair of startled black eyes.

The arms holding him fell away and Professor Snape quickly extracted himself from where he’d been sitting on Harry’s bed. The man looked blurry now that he wasn’t right next to him, but Harry’s brain was kind of blurry too, so that was okay. He could see the professor well enough to watch with fascination as his cheeks tinged with pink. “You were thrashing,” said the voice. Snape. _Oh._ The voice was Snape. But hadn’t Snape said he wouldn’t sing to him?

He blinked owlishly at the unfamiliar room. It was half dark, half lit up by a lamp on the bedside table. He missed the hug, but something kept him from asking for it back. He still felt its magical effects, still felt safe and warm, so he could probably manage without it for a while.

“Potter?” He snapped his gaze back to Snape. The professor was looking at him with a question in his eyes, but Harry didn’t know the question. Had he missed a question in Potions class again? No, he wasn’t in Potions class, he was in bed. _Oh._ That’s what he was late for—Potions!

Snape was going to _kill_ him.

He sat up and started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but his body was still in revolt, and he started to pitch forward. Strong arms caught him and eased him back. It occurred to him to latch onto the arms for another hug, but that would make him later than he already was, so he let them let go, and then he tried to sit up again.

“Do you need to use the facilities?” Snape asked, and Harry frowned, sounding out the long word but unable to work out what it meant.

“Sorry ‘m late, jus’ oversl’pt,” he mumbled and swatted the hands away. “Don’ wanna lose points.”

“Points?” Snape frowned. “We’re not at school, Potter. You aren’t going to lose points.”

“’M late for class!” he insisted.

“You are not late,” Snape enunciated slowly. “We are not at Hogwarts.”

Harry stilled long enough to allow Snape to tuck him back under the covers. “W’re not?” Why did his tongue feel heavy? He reached up to feel his tongue, but it didn’t seem any different than usual. Snape gently grasped his hand and moved his arm back to his side.

“’M late for Potions,” he tried once more, but his attempt was feeble. If Snape was going to let him skive off Potions, who was he to complain?

Snape laid a hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish,” he murmured. “Are you still cold?”

Cold? Why would he be cold? Oh, like snow? He looked for a window but there wasn’t one. “Is’t snowing?” he asked, and his tongue was starting to feel a little bit better, not quite as heavy. He tried to feel it again but Snape snagged his hand before he could and laid it back on the bed. “I like snow,” he added. He did. It made the world so pretty. He didn’t always like it, like when the Dursleys made him do outside chores in the middle of winter, but that wasn’t the snow’s fault. “Do you like snow?”

Snape had a weird look on his face, like he didn’t know whether to frown or to smile. Harry brought a clumsy hand over to pat Snape’s where it hovered over the bed next to him. “It’s okay. Not ever’body likes snow.” If it was snowing, it would be getting cold soon. He burrowed under the covers. It felt _really_ nice. Soft, like his bed at Hogwarts. Maybe even softer. _Definitely_ nicer than at the Dursleys’. He was lucky if he even got more than a threadbare castoff of a blanket there. He wanted to ask if he could keep it, but that seemed rude. Of course he couldn’t keep it. It was Snape’s. “Sorry ‘bout the bed,” he felt the need to say.

“The bed?” Snape frowned.

Harry reached out a hand toward Snape’s face. Maybe if he could smooth out the frown line, the man would smile instead. But he couldn’t quite reach, and Snape guided his hand back down anyway.

“Yeah,” he said instead. “I wouldn’t’a made you sleep on a lumpy mattress if I had another.”

Snape’s frown deepened. “Are you speaking of our time at your relatives’ home?”

 _Obviously._ But he thought that saying _duh_ to Snape was a bad idea, so he nodded. But that made the room spin, so he stopped. Oh, maybe Snape was unhappy because he wanted this bed too. It was loads more comfortable than the other one. He sat up, but Snape gently pushed him back before he could even kick off the covers.

“Don’t you want it?” he asked, confused.

“Want what?” Snape seemed just as confused.

“The bed,” he said impatiently. Geez, Snape was slow today. The man sighed, and Harry bit his bottom lip. What had he done this time?

“No, Potter,” Snape said heavily. “I don’t want your bed. You keep it.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. I am sure.” Snape looked at him uncomfortably for a moment and then cleared his throat. “It is I who should apologize,” he began hesitantly. “You are the child; I am the adult. I should not have driven you out of your own bed and compelled you to sleep on the floor.”

Harry grinned. If Snape was saying sorry, maybe he wasn’t angry after all. “S’okay. Floor’s not so bad.”

“Still.” Snape’s face settled into another frown and he asked, “How do you feel?”

Harry frowned back, thinking. Feel? Like emotions? Snape didn’t seem the type to want to talk about emotions. Or maybe he meant what he felt like _doing_? Or eating. He felt like…“toast.”

Snape stared at him, and it was kind of nice that he looked fuzzy, because it made his features softer, his frowns a little less…frowny. If Harry turned his head and squinted his eyes, he could almost pretend the man was grinning.

“What are you doing?”

“Turning your frown…upside down.” He burst into giggles, which intensified when Snape merely stood there, staring at him. But by the time he was over the worst of his giggles, Snape had sat down in a chair next to his bed and the frown was gone, and Harry could swear he was almost smiling. “It worked,” he said with a final giggle, then asked, “Why aren’t you in class?” It was nice of him to let Harry skive off class, but it wasn’t like Snape to skive off himself. The man was always so, so… _responsible_.

“There is no class today,” Snape answered calmly. He seemed more relaxed. Good. Harry liked it when Snape relaxed. He was nicer then, and sometimes he even said things that Harry found funny. “Are you thirsty?” the professor asked, and Harry considered the question, but he couldn’t find anything funny about it. He started to shake his head, then changed his mind and nodded. It came out as sort of a weird head turn-bob thing, but Snape seemed to understand. He conjured a glass with a wave of his hand and helped Harry sit up long enough to take a few sips. It tasted good, nice and cool.

“Can we go see the snow?” he asked as soon as he had settled back down.

“It isn’t—” Snape cut himself off and said instead, “Not right now. You need to rest.”

“Feel fine,” he mumbled, though if his legs were still in revolt, maybe it would be all right to wait until later to…do… What did he want to do again? He lost that thought but had a sudden overwhelming desire to know, “Do you like to fly?”

“Fly?” repeated Snape with raised eyebrows, but he answered, “I suppose I never thought to enjoy it. It is merely a mode of travel.” Harry stared at him, scandalized. And as he watched, the man’s lips actually quirked up into a _smile_. Snape didn’t seem to understand how tragic it was to not even _think_ to enjoy _flying_. “Not all of wizardkind plays Quidditch or enjoys sitting upon a splintery stick fifty feet above solid ground, Potter.”

“But… _flying_!” It was an ironclad argument. But Snape was stubborn, he knew, so he added, “Hedwig likes it.”

“Hedwig is an _owl_.”

“So?”

“She has _wings_.”

Harry wasn’t sure why wings were important, but he added, “bats have wings,” because that _did_ seem important.

Snape blinked. “I am not an owl _or_ a bat, so I fail to see the relevance of either point.”

He grinned. Snape _was_ funny. Maybe he liked jokes? Ron had told him a funny one last year. Something about… “What…er, what’s a bat’s favorite dessert?”

Snape didn’t answer.

“I-scream!” He giggled, and he was pretty sure Snape liked the joke too, because he snorted, and not in his usual mocking way. He wished he knew more jokes to make Snape laugh. He’d have to learn some. In the meantime, he offered, “I’ll go flying with you if you want. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”

Snape shook his head but said softly, “I shall keep the offer in mind.” He pulled out his wand to dim the light. “You should sleep. Your mind and body are still adjusting to the aftereffects of the potion. You will recuperate more quickly with adequate rest.”

Potion? What potion? Oh, Dreamless Sleep? He had a fair bit of it stored up in his trunk. He’d been trying not to use it too much. “Am I a potions addict now?” he asked gravely. He _was_ feeling more and more tired the longer he lay here. His eyes were even feeling heavy. Was that what happened to potions addicts? They fell asleep and never wanted to wake up again?

“A potions addict?” Snape drew his brows together. “No, of course not. You will be fine. Rest now. I will explain later, when you are more lucid.”

“Loosed what?”

“ _Lucid_ ,” Snape repeated. “Coherent. Rational. Clear-headed,” he listed as he settled into his chair.

“Hmm. ‘Kay,” he murmured, not sure what Snape was going on about, but surely it could wait until after a nap. He was glad to not be a potions addict, even if it meant he couldn’t have wings. Or toast. Or do…what was it that he wanted to do, again? Oh, yeah. Go to class. But that nice floaty feeling was urging him to close his eyes and it felt so nice to give in to it. So he did.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he slept, but he suddenly remembered why he should be afraid. “Snape!” he gasped. His eyes shot open. Voldemort had him and he was dying and they were trapped and Snape was dead and they needed to get away before he stayed dead and trapped and and and—

He didn’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears, but Snape’s face entered his vision. His lips were saying something, but Harry couldn’t hear. All he could think was that Snape was dead, but Snape was _here_ , but he couldn’t be here because he was _dead_ …and the darkness was coming for them both, he could see it in the corners of his eyes, closing in…coming for them and not letting go—

A hand pounded on his chest, and it hurt, but it didn’t _hurt_ , and he sucked in a breath. He hadn’t been breathing. Why hadn’t he been breathing? He took another rattling breath. The darkness retreated. He was shaking. He didn’t dare blink, afraid of losing sight of his teacher. He was here. If he was here, he couldn’t be dead…could he?

He was going to cry. But that was something little kids did, wasn’t it? And he wasn’t a little kid. Or was he? He’d like to be, sometimes, like when he had nightmares and he wished he was little enough to crawl into a parent’s bed and feel safe... But he _wasn’t_ a little kid, and he didn’t want anybody to think he was, so he shouldn’t cry. But he couldn’t help himself, because Snape was _here_ and that meant that maybe _he wasn’t dead_.

He did the only thing he could think of to hide his tears. He pulled himself up and latched onto Snape, holding on for dear life. It was horribly awkward, but he didn’t dare let go of the man’s clothing to properly wrap his arms around him, because the man wasn’t doing the hug right either, and he might push him away if given the chance. Mrs. Thompson would have already pulled him close and held on as long as Harry wanted her to, but Snape didn’t have as much practice as Mrs. Thompson did. But Harry had learned how to hug when he didn’t know how, so Snape could learn too. It just might take him a little longer because he was older and had gone a lot longer without anybody to practice on.

Maybe it was the sob Harry couldn’t hold back, but Snape didn’t push him away. He wrapped his arms around Harry enough to support him and pat him on the back a few times. He held him, even if it was a bit stiff…and it was just what Harry needed, and it felt so good that he let himself readjust and hold on tighter as he cried.

He didn’t realize he was talking through his tears until he heard Snape answer him, “I’m not dead. I’m alive. I’m here.”

“You were dead,” he gasped once more.

“I was,” Snape answered more soothingly than Harry thought he’d ever heard the man sound, “but I am alive now.”

Harry hiccuped and tightened his hold. He was out of words, and he was out of tears too, but it didn’t matter. Snape let him stay until his head began to droop, and darkness came for him again, but it was of a different sort. It was a safe darkness, one that promised to comfort rather than to harm. He tried to hold on to Snape, but the darkness was calling softly to him and his teacher was guiding him back down to the soft pillow and tucking a soft blanket around him and his eyes were closing…

He grasped at Snape’s hand as it moved away, and he squinted up at the man’s blurry face. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t leave,” Snape promised and proved it by sitting next to the bed. Harry watched him watch him for several seconds through heavy-lidded eyes before he allowed them to close completely. The warm hand didn’t leave his grasp, and he thought that maybe Snape was getting better at being Mrs. Thompson after all.

* * *

His dreams were a roller coaster. He was eating breakfast in the Great Hall with Ron, but in the next minute, Ron was Hedwig and he had a letter. It was from Sirius, and that made Harry sad, but it turned into a mirror that was soft on the edges so he could hold it and remember Sirius, and that made him happier. He couldn’t see himself in the mirror though, and he figured out that he was because he was a ghost and ghosts didn’t have reflections. Or was that vampires? Or werewolves? Remus had a reflection. Remus smelled of evil though, someone had said, and even thestrals didn’t like the smell of evil. And he needed to ride the thestrals if he wanted to save Remus from the mirror. No, Sirius. He had to save Sirius from the mirror.

“Black is dead, Harry,” he heard in a quiet voice, and he hated hearing it, because he knew it was true.

But maybe there was a way to bring him back..? He was awake, but he was dreaming, and he didn’t know where the dream stopped and the awake world started. But he managed to open his eyes and look up at Snape, so he must be at least partway into the awake world, right? Maybe his professor would know. “Can a Time-Turner take me there?” he asked. “To the Ministry? To save Sirius?”

Snape’s eyes widened, and Harry wondered if the man hadn’t expected him to be half awake. But he shook his head and said “no” with a wince, and Harry knew that was the truth too. It was strange how he wasn’t certain if he was really here or if Snape was really here, but he was certain that Sirius was gone forever.

His chest ached but he was out of tears. “He said I could live with him,” he confessed to get his mind off his lack of tears. “I never got to. Would’ve been nice to leave the Dursleys, even if he really wanted my dad.”

Something squeezed his hand, and he looked down to see that he had a grip on Snape’s fingers. That was odd. But it made him feel more real, so he didn’t pull away. “Black would have done right by you if he could have,” Snape said, and Harry’s eyes were drawn back to his black ones. They held his gaze unflinchingly, still telling the truth, even though a grimace betrayed that it was nearly killing him to speak well of Sirius Black. “He allowed the dead to reign over his life for so long that he needed time to acclimate to residing amongst the living. He cared about you. He would have respected your differences in time, seen you as more than your father’s son.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t mean to sound plaintive, but he was mostly dreaming anyway, so he could easily convince himself he’d spoken in his head.

“Yes.” Snape leaned forward, not breaking eye contact. “He would not have been able to help himself.”

“Tha’s good,” Harry breathed. And it was. He felt better, like maybe he didn’t have to dream of Sirius now. But he could feel the next dream forcing its way into his mind, and he had to chase after it or else the Hippogriffs would start a stampede and he’d be left to walk to Hogsmeade by himself. And…snow? There was something about snow.

He felt the blanket tucked closer around him as he tried to remember where the Hippogriffs kept all the snow…

* * *

The next time he woke, it was to Vernon’s snoring. Sometimes he heard his uncle’s snores through the walls, and he hated it—not because of the snoring itself, but because it reminded him how thin the walls could be sometimes. He didn’t like knowing his relatives might hear him talk in his sleep. They’d gotten better at ignoring him, but Dudley still teased him sometimes.

These snores were soft though. They weren’t loud, like Vernon’s sometimes were, and when he caught sight of a dark head on the edge of the bed, he realized the snores weren’t coming from Vernon after all. They weren’t even coming from another room.

Snape was sitting in a chair near Harry, but he was slumped over the bed, one hand propping up his head, the other loose in Harry’s grasp. As he watched, the man’s arm twitched in his sleep, and he grimaced as if in pain. Harry wondered if he was having a nightmare. He could relate. He had plenty of nightmares.

He extracted his hand from his professor’s and poked at his arm. When Snape only grimaced again, he poked again and added a “professor?”

Snape jerked awake, a frown on his face as he came to. Harry was fascinated by how quickly his professor’s eyes changed from tired to alert.

“Want some Dreamless Sleep?” Harry offered.

Snape cleared the sleep from his throat and raised an eyebrow. “You have Dreamless Sleep potion on you, do you?”

Harry thought for a minute. “No.”

Snape shook his head and then felt Harry’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

Harry leaned into the hand. It was pleasant and cool.

“You’re warm.” Snape frowned. He pulled out his wand and waved it over Harry.

“You could conjure some,” Harry suggested.

“Conjure what?” asked Snape distractedly as he reached for something on the bedside table.

“Dreamless Sleep.”

Snape gave an exasperated shake of his head and muttered, “Sixth year and you don’t even grasp the basic principles and limitations involved in combining charms with potions. Here, sit up.” He hooked an arm behind Harry’s shoulders and helped him sit up far enough to swallow a potion. It tasted familiar, like a potion he’d had before when he was sick.

“Am I sick?” he asked as the professor helped him lie back down.

“No. Not sick.” Snape paused and added, “just…out of sorts. Your body is detoxing from a particularly potent potion.”

Harry grinned. “Particularly potent potion,” he repeated and laughed.

Snape smiled a wry smile. “Your mind is detoxing as well. Hence why you are experiencing varying levels of lucidity.” He laid something cool and soft on Harry’s forehead, and Harry closed his eyes and sighed happily. Oh, that felt _nice._

“Thanks,” Harry murmured. “You know, you’re not a bad teacher. Well, I mean, you are, but you aren’t.”

“How complimentary,” Snape drawled.

He cracked open an eye. “You’re pants at teaching Potions, but I learned loads about Occ…occulmen…you know…” Snape crossed his arms over his chest, but he didn’t look angry. At least, Harry didn’t think he looked angry. He suddenly knew what he was missing—his glasses. He thought to look for them, but the world was kind of nice, all soft like that, so he sank into his pillow and promptly forgot about his glasses.

“Perhaps,” Snape said snidely, “if you paid attention in class or gave your full attention to your assignments—”

Harry’s eyes shot open. “Am I late for class?”

Snape sighed. “No.”

“Are you gonna take points?”

“We’re not at Hogwarts, Potter,” he clipped. “And I am no longer your professor, so you needn’t worry yourself over it.”

“Oh.” That made Harry feel sad but he wasn’t sure why. “You’re not so bad, really. You just take too many points, and yell a lot, and you’re really unfair with anybody ‘cept Slytherins, and you make kids nervous, and you’re mean sometimes, way meaner than you have to be, and—”

“I get the picture.”

“But other than being a bad teacher, you’re still a really good teacher sometimes.”

Snape sighed again. “Are you tired? Your body could use all the sleep it can get.”

“Not tired,” Harry lied and yawned. “C’n I ask you something?” Snape seemed to think about it and then nodded. “Did the Sorting Hat try to put you in Ravenclaw?”

Snape snorted. “This foray into the depths of your mind is enlightening, Potter.”

Harry frowned, trying to parcel the words together, but his brain was feeling floaty again and it was hard.

“The Sorting Hat saw in me the potential for multiple houses,” Snape relented, “but it chose to place me into Slytherin House. I did not attempt to sway it.”

Harry nodded sagely. “You’re very Slytherin.”

“Yes. I am,” Snape said with a proud gleam in his eye.

“If you’d had kids, would you’ve been okay if they were put in Gryffindor?”

Snape gave him an odd look. “I have never and will never have children. It is a moot point.”

“Think my mum would’ve been okay with if I’d been a Slytherin?”

Snape was quiet a long time, but that was okay. It was getting harder and harder for Harry to think, so maybe it was for Snape too. When he did speak, it was to say softly, “I think that she would have been proud of you regardless. She had more regard for character than for such things as house identities.”

Harry thought for a second. “Does that mean yes?”

Snape let out a huff, but he was half smiling. “Yes, Potter. That means yes.”

“You can call me Harry if you want to,” he murmured as his eyes fluttered closed. “I don’t mind it when you do.”

He felt a tingling in the air and the cloth on his forehead became nice and cool again. He sighed contentedly.

“We’ll see,” he heard as the world slowly faded away.

* * *

“Who is the Minister for Magic?” he was quizzed after he’d had time for no more than a glass of water upon awakening. At least, he thought he was awake.

“Uh…” He had a sudden craving for chocolate, and he couldn’t remember the question.

“What are the five main properties of Acromantula venom?”

Harry squinted up at Snape. “They’re scary.”

“That is not a property.”

Harry blinked. “Are you gonna take points?”

Snape crossed his arms and said exasperatedly, “No. We are not at Hogwarts.”

They weren’t? Wait. That made him think of something… Snow? Snow. “Is it snowing?”

“No. No, Potter, it is _not_ snowing.” Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You aren’t going to remember most of this, are you?”

“I didn’t study for the test.” Harry shrugged apologetically. “Can I have some chocolate?”

Snape sighed and brushed his loose hair from his eyes. He didn’t answer, which Harry thought was rather rude. “Don’t you like chocolate?”

Snape smirked. “I prefer caramel.”

“Oh.” Harry thought for a minute. “Chocolate is nice. Like when there’s homework or Dementors.”

“It figures that you would compare the two,” Snape said dryly.

“Two Dementors?” Harry looked around worriedly.

“No, Potter.” Snape absently patted Harry’s arm reassuringly. “There are no Dementors here.”

“Then why are you giving me chocolate?”

“I am _not_ giving you chocolate.”

“Why not?” He thought he might be pouting, but Snape was being mean, keeping it all for himself.

Snape huffed and leaned his head back in the chair. After a few seconds, he straightened and eyed Harry. “Exactly how forthcoming are you feeling at the moment?”

Harry frowned. “Huh?”

“Good enough.” Snape leaned forward. “You once told Lupin that you hear your mother when Dementors are near. What did you mean by that?”

He felt cold, like maybe there was a Dementor present after all, and he looked around to make sure they were alone. Snape followed his gaze, but seeing nothing, stared at him expectantly. Harry didn’t like to think about his mum’s last moments, and he wondered why Snape wanted to know. Did he hear bad things when Dementors came near too? Snape’s mum and dad were dead too. Maybe he heard his own mum, like Harry heard his.

“Can you see thestrals?” he asked before he knew he was going to ask it.

Snape took a long breath and let it out. “Many times over.” They were quiet for a few minutes before Snape again prodded, “Why do you hear your mother, Harry?”

“She died,” he sniffed. He felt a tightness in his chest, but he didn’t think he was going to cry. He was out of tears. Wasn’t he? He didn’t know why he thought that, but he hoped it was true, because he didn’t want to cry.

“Yes, I know,” answered Snape, and he looked like he understood Harry’s pain.

Maybe that’s why he answered. “He killed her in front of me,” he heard himself say. “I didn’t remember ‘til the Dementor. That’s what I hear. Her dying.” He added in a whisper, “She was screaming.”

Snape closed his eyes, and Harry again got the feeling that Snape understood, and that maybe he felt the pain alongside him. He liked that feeling. It was like…not being alone any more. It was always nice not to be alone. “Wish I could remember other things,” he admitted, because Snape seemed like he wouldn’t mind if he talked about his mum just then. “I bet she was a good mum.”

Snape cleared his throat. He didn’t speak for several seconds, then said, “She was. I never saw her with you, but it would have been impossible for her to be a bad mother.”

Harry smiled, and a nice warmth washed over him, chasing away the cold. “Could you tell me more about her?” he murmured with a yawn.

“Perhaps. Sometime,” Snape said noncommittally, and Harry wondered if he meant it. It was _Snape_ , after all. He wasn’t the heart to heart chat type. “Sleep more. Your mind seems to be clearing a bit. More rest will speed up the process.”

Harry nodded sleepily. “What time s’it?”

“Middle of the night,” Snape answered. “Don’t worry about the time. You’ll have as long as you need to recuperate.”

“I’ll be late for class,” he worried.

“I’ll wake you up in time,” assured Snape, and that made Harry feel better. Snape was the most punctual person he knew. There was no way he’d let Harry be late.

Harry closed his eyes, and his head filled with nice fluffy clouds. They were like snow. And he liked snow. He wondered if Snape liked snow… “Pr’fessor?” he opened his eyes to ask.

“Hmm?”

But instead of whatever he’d been about to say, he found himself asking instead, “D’you still hate me?”

Snape didn’t have to think about it before he said, “no,” and that made Harry grin.

“Don’t hate you either,” he murmured back. And this time when he fell asleep, his dreams were filled with nice things, like flying on his broom and drinking butterbeers with his friends. Sometimes he dreamed about hugs and humming and Muggle healing magic too. And even though the fear was there in the back of his mind, and it wouldn’t go away altogether, the Muggle magic kept it away for now. He was safe, and not hated, and everything was going to be all right.


	49. The Forgotten Summer

He was alone in an unfamiliar room. Fear gripped his heart, and a rush of adrenaline quickly followed. He rose on his elbows as quietly as he could and took stock of the room. He didn’t know where he was or who else might be here, but the way his life had gone so far, he could just as easily be in the home of a murderous sociopath as that of a kindhearted friend.

The air smelled nice, like cooked vegetables and herbs. It calmed him as he surveyed the room, for surely murderous kidnapping sociopaths didn’t do beautifully mundane things like cook vegetables with rosemary and thyme. It was a small room, but comfortably furnished. The bed and a chest of drawers were the largest pieces of furniture in the room. A chair sat next to the bed, the cushion slightly askew as if someone had recently sat in it. A more comfortable chair sat a little farther away next to a small table strewn with a several books. A nightstand next to Harry’s bed held a lamp, several potions vials, a glass of water, and a small folded cloth.

It was very ordinary. Harry took several deep breaths to calm his racing heart. Ordinary was good. It was really good. He could handle ordinary. He could definitely handle ordinary.

The sound of footsteps drew his eyes to the door in time to see Snape enter the room. The man stopped short as he met Harry’s eyes, clearly not having expected him to be awake.

Harry immediately sat up. “Thank Merlin,” he said, relieved. No murderous kidnapping sociopaths. Just Snape.

The man lingered uncertainly in the doorway for another moment before purposefully striding forward. He withdrew his wand and waved it over Harry. Seeming satisfied about something, he asked, “Who is the Minister for Magic?”

Harry blinked. “Um. Fudge?”

“What are the five main properties of Acromantula venom?”

“Uh…why? Is this some sort of test?” If it was, then he would fail miserably. He sort of remembered learning that in Snape’s class, but it’s not like he _memorized_ everything he learned in class.

Snape gave him an assessing look and sat in the bedside chair. “How do you feel?”

“Okay,” he said, but at a knowing look from Snape, admitted, “Sore. All over. And I have a bit of a headache.”

Snape gave a brisk nod and handed him a potion from the nightstand. “Drink.”

Harry obeyed, downing the potion in one go, and handed the empty vial back to his professor. He was pleased to feel his aches and pains immediately lessen, though less pleased to realize that he couldn’t remember being injured. “Where are we?”

“What is the last thing that you remember?” Snape hedged.

“Um…” Harry frowned, thinking. His mind was clear, but his memory was hazy. He felt suddenly confused, not certain of anything. “We left Grimmauld Place, right? Went to…” Where did they go? His mind grappled for something to trigger his memory.

“Kneader’s Point,” supplied Snape.

Kneader’s! Right! Occlumency on the beach. Homework with Hermione and Ginny. A hawk-eyed Order member who was maybe-friends with Snape. A new snake friend. It all came back to him in a rush. “Why’d we leave?”

Snape gave him an odd look, and Harry bit his lip, trying to remember what Snape seemed to think he should already know. Snape leaned forward, staring intently at him. “Do you remember what happened in the meadow…with Lupin?”

Harry was starting to feel scared. Why couldn’t he remember whatever Snape thought he ought to remember? Was something done to him?

Snape must have read the fear on his face - or performed Legilimency, which Harry didn’t even mind right then - for he explained, “Your mind was affected by a potion. Temporary memory loss is not to be unexpected. It will all come back to you shortly, and it shouldn’t lapse again at this stage of your recovery.”

“How shortly?” Harry squeaked, but didn’t wait for Snape to answer. “Lapse _again_? What do you mean? Wait, how can you be sure I don’t have amnesia? I mean, the permanent kind?” His heart was starting to pound.

“Because I personally developed the potion you ingested,” Snape said with a casual wave of his hand. “There were _some_ unknown factors, as the potion is a new formulation, but several side effects we can treat as certainties. Temporary confusion, memory loss, and decreased control of the extremities are among the most obvious.”

That gave Harry pause. He held up a hand to his face. “Oh,” he said as he watched in fascination as his hand wobbled and twitched, then he looked up in realization of what Snape had said. “Wait. _You_ gave me an amnesia potion?”

“No,” Snape crossed his arms as if offended. “Of course not. I merely developed it. And I deliberately developed it in such a way as to decrease the intensity of the side effects, I might add.”

Harry drew his brows together in confusion. “So what happened? Just…just lay it on me. I can handle it.”

Snape took a breath, then watched him carefully as he bluntly stated, “You were captured by the Dark Lord.”

“I…” Harry stared, half horrified, half waiting for his memories to return. They didn’t. “But I…but I got out,” he said to reassure himself that he already knew the ending to this story. He was here, safe, with Snape, so he had managed to escape somehow. Or…or been rescued. “ _You_ got me out?” he asked.

“Do you remember anything?” Snape asked without answering the question, but that was all right with Harry because it was obvious that Snape must have had something to do with his escape. “A spark of a memory, anything about your time as the Dark Lord’s prisoner?”

Harry shook his head. He was pretty sure his hands were shaking out of fear now. “How long was I there?”

“Almost two weeks,” answered Snape, and Harry clutched at his blankets with white fingers. “You were held prisoner for four, almost five days, under the Dark Lord's potion for a little over a week.”

He shook his head furiously now. “No. No, that’s not possible, because that would mean that I’ve lost that much time, and that’s not supposed to happen. Two weeks isn’t supposed to just up and vanish!” he insisted. “And…and school!” His eyes widened in horror. “Hogwarts! That means…that means classes have started, and I’m not there! I’m already behind! And…and what did he do to my mind?” He hated that his voice had started to wobble, but he couldn’t help it. He had lost _weeks_ of his life, and it seemed to have happened so easily, and that scared him. “And my body!” he yelped, holding up his hands again as if to make certain they were both attached. He quickly threw the covers off his feet and wiggled his toes. Still ten, and all still moving. Not remembering what had happened to him made him feel so…so _violated_.

A hand grasped his arm, and he looked up to meet Snape’s steady black gaze. “You are well. He did nothing to your body that will cause lasting damage. Your mind too will heal.”

Harry gulped, trying to keep his breathing under control. He could feel panic trying to overtake him, and the last thing he needed was for Snape to witness him having another panic attack. The professor had already seen him break down more than once. Any more, and he’d start to think Harry was mental. If he didn’t already. He took a deep, slow breath, like Snape had taught him, and then another. When he felt like he could talk without breaking down, he asked, “Why can’t I remember? I remember the rest of the summer. I remember every detail, all of it, but I can’t remember anything about You-Know-Who.” He rushed on to prove his memory, words coming quickly, “I remember…I remember…you showed up at the Dursleys, and you tried to kick me out of my own bedroom, but then you let me go with you, away from my relatives. And Dumbledore, he let me stay at Grimmauld Place, and you made me cut up toads and loads of disgusting things, and then Ron…” His breath caught, but he pushed on. “You taught me Occlumency, and you gave me that letter, and my mum’s stone, and I had those visions, and we went to Kneader’s. I talked with a snake and did homework, and you showed up, and we talked, and-” His eyes widened and he stared at Snape, willing himself not to cry or to hyperventilate. “I’m _so_ sorry. I swear, I didn’t think about how you’d feel about me listening in, I just wanted to _know_ , and I’ll never do it again! I mean it, I’m so-”

Snape cut him off with a raised hand, and it was all Harry could do not to flinch. Judging by Snape’s wince, he guessed the man knew that, or that maybe he’d flinched after all. Snape immediately lowered his hand. He looked away. “I will not hit you,” he said quietly and then cleared his throat. “I know that our history and my…my temper does not support your trust in that statement, but I give you my word nonetheless. Striking you before was inexcusable on my part. You need not fear that in future. I will not assault you as did your uncle.”

Harry stared. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected anger. Maybe cold indifference. Not reassurance. He couldn’t think what to say to that, so he tentatively asked, “Aren’t you angry?” He certainly had been the last time they’d seen each other. The last time Harry could remember seeing him, anyway. The memory of Snape’s cold, angry eyes nearly made him flinch again.

Snape took a long, slow breath, studying Harry with an inscrutable expression as he did so. It was nerve-racking, and Harry’s fidgeting was made worse by his twitching fingers. “We both have made mistakes, have we not?” Snape said, his words slow and measured. “I have recently been on the receiving end of forgiveness. I find it exceedingly unreasonable to not repay in kind.”

Harry stared in silence for a long moment. “You…are you saying you…forgive me?” He wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. The man in front of him certainly looked like Snape and sounded like Snape, but the words didn’t seem very Snape-like. He narrowed his eyes. “What did I make at Kneaders? When we talked about Potions?”

Snape sighed. “Biscuits. I am myself, Potter.”

“What memory did I use during our first Occlumency lesson this summer?”

“Being chased by an infernal dog,” Snape said in a long-suffering tone. “I am Severus Snape.”

Harry bit his lip, not sure what to say. The Snape he’d known for so long would never have forgiven him. The Pensieve incident was bad enough, but this…this was almost worse because they had started to build some trust between them. And Harry, while not entirely meaning to, had thrown it back in his face. The Snape he knew would never shrug it off so easily.

Had things really changed so much between them?

“Um. Thank you?” he said hesitantly, still not entirely certain that the offer of forgiveness could be real.

Snape tapped his fingers on his legs, cleared his throat, and asked brusquely, “Can you stand?” It was clear that while Snape meant what he’d said about forgiveness, he wasn’t very comfortable talking about it. And oddly, it was Snape’s discomfort that relaxed Harry and made _him_ more comfortable. This was the Snape he knew. He might have changed over the summer, but he wasn’t a _completely_ different person.

“I dunno. I can try.”

Snape stood and offered his right arm, which Harry grasped to haul himself from the bed. His legs shook when he planted them on the floor, but they supported his weight. He stumbled a bit as he tried to put one foot in front of the other, but Snape’s arm stayed firm in his grip, helping him as they made their way to the doorway. Snape guided him through the hallway to a small room off the side. Harry peeked in to see a toilet, sink, a chair, and a claw-footed bathtub. He tried not to blush as his professor guided him in, hoping against hope that he wasn’t going to offer to stay in here and help with anything. If he did, Harry might die of mortification.

Thankfully, Snape only guided him to the sink, withdrew long enough to turn on water to the bathtub, and said, “Soap is there. A towel and fresh clothes are on the chair. I’ll have a meal prepared for you when you are done. I trust you can take it from here?”

Harry nodded quickly, and Snape retreated. He sighed as he clutched the edges of the sink for stability. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and gasped. He looked _awful_. His hair was sticking up more than usual, his face was too thin, and he had bags under his eyes. He reached an unsteady hand up to touch his face. There were bruises…or the remnants of bruises. They were faded, nearly healed, but he could make them out like shadows on his forehead, jaw, and cheekbone. He turned over his hand and leaned against the sink for support so that he could roll up his sleeves. More shadows of almost-healed bruises. What had _happened_ to him?

He was suddenly afraid to remember.

* * *

“How come I can remember other things but not the last two weeks?” he asked in between small bites of steamed carrot. He felt loads better now that he was clean, and true to his word, Snape had a simple meal of unseasoned meat and vegetables ready for him in the kitchen. (“Plain fare, until your body is accustomed to food again,” the professor had explained.)

“You wouldn’t remember your time under the potion,” Snape pointed out from across the small table. He must have eaten already, for he was sipping a cup of tea. “As for the rest… You cannot remember due to trauma, I expect.”

Harry tapped his fork thoughtfully against his plate as he chewed and swallowed. “Trauma? I can remember loads of pretty traumatic things,” he countered skeptically.

“Yes, I am certain you can,” murmured Snape, and Harry eyed his carrots with feigned interest, hoping they weren’t about to delve into any of his horrible memories right then. Snape cleared his throat and clarified, “Recent trauma. And of a certain sort. I really would not worry myself over it. Your memory will return shortly. Within the span of a week at the longest, but more likely by the end of the day.”

“How...um, how traumatic _was_ it?” he asked. Snape had to have seen his twinge of panic, but he thankfully said nothing. “Like…was it the stuff of nightmares? Or…” But who was he kidding? Of course it was the stuff of nightmares. He’d seen enough of the shadow-bruises on the rest of his body to gather that much. He had a particularly nasty one on his side that was still more than a shadow, and which twinged if he moved too fast. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ll remember when I remember.” He stuffed another bite of carrot in his mouth to quash his curiosity, but then he thought of something else to ask and had to chew and swallow quickly. “You mentioned Remus. He’s okay, right? Nothing happened to him? Last I remember, he was still recovering from being captured himself.”

Something dangerous flashed in Snape’s eyes, and it took Harry a moment to realize that it wasn’t aimed at him. “Lupin is well,” he clipped. “He suffered an injury, but he is no doubt fully recovered by now.”

Something about Snape’s tone warned Harry off asking any more questions about Remus, so he didn’t. “When are we going back to Hogwarts?” He frowned at another thought. “It’s not a weekday, is it? You’re not missing class or anything to be here?”

“We will be returning to Hogwarts this morning. It is Saturday.”

Harry sighed. “So I missed the Hogwarts Express, the welcoming feast, the first week of classes, all of it?”

“The headmaster has spoken with your professors,” said Snape. “They will give you some time to catch up. It has only been a week.”

“Only a week,” Harry echoed miserably. “And how many assignments have _you_ already handed out to your students in _only one week_? It’ll take me forever to get caught up in all my classes. And-” He widened his eyes. “Quidditch tryouts will be this week! I can’t miss Quidditch tryouts!”

“Merlin forbid,” said Snape dryly as he sipped his tea.

“I’m serious! I love Quidditch. Do you know how awful it was to be banned last year?”

“Ah, yes,” said Snape smoothly. “The ban. I don’t believe that was ever officially lifted.”

Harry stared at him in horror. “I…I assumed…”

“Oh, calm yourself, Potter,” Snape smirked. “The headmaster wouldn’t dream of allowing any decrees from Umbridge to stand, especially not where you are concerned. And no one is going to force you from the team if you are not yet well enough to attend tryouts for new players.”

“But I’m awake now. Surely I can-”

Snape leaned forward, pierced him with his best silencing stare, and growled, “You just woke up from a _highly_ potent potion, and you can hardly walk without tripping. If you so much as _attempt_ to _approach_ a broomstick before Madame Pomfrey clears you to do so, I will _personally_ ensure that Professor Dumbledore reevaluates that ban in some formulation.”

Harry shrank in his seat and mumbled, “yes, sir.”

Snape gave a short, satisfied nod and rose from the table. “Finish eating. We will leave within the hour. I’ve owled the headmaster to expect us.” He swept from the room, presumably to straighten the room or gather their things.

Harry chewed a forkful of meat without tasting it. He didn’t know what to think or feel right then. Frustration, confusion, and fear warred for dominance. He didn’t know whether he was more disappointed to have missed the first week of school or more fearful to be missing time and memories. Important memories, too. He wasn’t sure he wanted to remember what had happened, but he needed to. Missing time was disconcerting, to say the least. Knowing that he had been with Voldemort and couldn’t remember it was downright horrifying. Yes, he decided. He would focus on that, focus on remembering. He couldn’t rewind time, but he could try to figure out his own mind.

And at the same time, he would look forward to Hogwarts and Quidditch and classes and… As soon as he thought of his friends, his mind honed in on one. _Ron._ He felt chilled at the memory that Ron had already been in a bad way the last time he’d seen him. And now… Oh god, now he could be… He mechanically swallowed the last bite of food. He needed to know if Ron was better or worse, or at least know that he wasn’t…

No. Ron was okay. He had to be.

But as much as he wanted to know, he couldn’t bring himself to ask when Snape returned. He was too afraid to know the answer, too afraid to see a harsh truth in his professor’s eyes before the answer could be given out loud.

* * *

They took a Portkey to a different house, this one slightly rundown and abandoned. It was on a large plot of land, open, with no other houses or people in sight. The inside was simple but clean. It didn’t look lived in, more like somebody had stopped in to dust and stock it in the last month or so.

“Another safe house?” he guessed as Snape led the way to a fireplace in the corner.

Snape nodded, holding onto Harry’s arm as if he might fall over if he let go. He found that he didn’t mind the support. After that Portkey, he wasn’t feeling very steady. With a wave of Snape’s wand, a fire was lit and he gestured for Harry to scoop some Floo powder from a jar on the mantel. Harry glanced up expectantly.

“Dumbledore’s office, Hogwarts,” the professor instructed.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Dumbledore’s office is connected to the Floo Network?”

“Not usually. Today it is. Go on,” Snape gestured and let go of Harry’s arm, stepping away.

He threw the powder, stepped in, and yelled clearly, “Dumbledore’s office, Hogwarts!” A blur of green ash and a few seconds later, he found himself stepping out of the fireplace into the headmaster’s office. Well, stumbling out. But he preferred to pretend he hadn’t nearly fallen headfirst into the headmaster’s robes.

“Steady there, Harry,” said Dumbledore gently as he kept him from falling entirely. When Harry looked up, he could see both concern and relief in the man’s eyes. “Alright there?”

“Sorry,” he muttered and straightened.

“No worries, no worries at all.” Dumbledore kept a hand on Harry’s arm. “I am happy to see you alive and well, my boy. You had us all worried.” He could see the truth of that in Dumbledore’s face. He looked tired, like he’d spent too many nights pacing instead of sleeping.

“Sorry,” he repeated automatically.

Dumbledore tsked, warmth in his eyes. “No need for apologies, Harry. What happened was far from your fault.”

Harry nodded, not sure what else to say and not needing to say anything anyway, as Snape stepped out of the fire behind him.

“Severus,” Dumbledore smiled happily. “I was worried about you as well. It puts my old mind at ease to see for myself that both of you are well.”

“Potter needs to be seen by Poppy,” Snape said without bothering about pleasantries. “The potion is mostly out of his system, and his injuries are not serious, but she should examine him to ensure that I missed nothing.”

“Of course, of course,” murmured Dumbledore, “and I will insist that she look you over as well.”

Snape looked like he might object, but Dumbledore’s eyes were stern, and he nodded with obvious reluctance. Harry grinned at seeing Snape treated like a child. He remembered the last time the man had had need to be seen by Madame Pomfrey. He hadn’t been thrilled to be fussed over then either.

He made the mistake of meeting Snape’s gaze with his grin in place, and the man’s narrowed eyes told him he knew precisely what he was grinning about.

He told himself he shouldn’t comment, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “Don’t be scared, professor,” he said in mock seriousness. “If you’re a good patient, Madame Pomfrey might give you a licorice wand.”

Snape glared, but there was no malice behind it, and it only made Harry grin wider.

“Come along, my boys,” cut in Dumbledore. His eyes were twinkling as he gestured back to the fireplace. “By floo again, I think. No sense exacerbating your tiredness with a trek through the castle.”

The Hospital Wing was quiet when they stepped through. Harry supposed that after only one week of school and no Quidditch practices, there hadn’t been too many opportunities yet for students to injure themselves. The examination itself didn’t take long. After Poppy greeted them, she performed a few diagnostic spells, proclaimed that nothing was very amiss that a few potions and some rest wouldn’t sort out, gave him several potions and a pair of pajamas, and led the professors away.

It wasn’t very difficult to obey her order to rest, for he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

He was drawn from his dreams by a whispered conversation. The whispers were hardly whispers, really, but it was apparent that the speakers were _trying_ to be quiet, even if they weren’t at all successful.

“It’s _Saturday_ , Hermione,” argued a girl’s voice.

“And?” another girl’s voice - a very familiar voice - answered. “He’ll never be caught up if he doesn’t read at least one more chapter today and complete two essays tomorrow.”

“What are you, his mother?” the first voice teased.

A harrumph sounded, but it was good-natured. It was obvious that the girls weren’t angry with each other, so it didn’t bother Harry. He breathed deeply and let it out. He felt himself drifting back and forth between sleep and awareness. There was a lengthy silence, as if brought on by his sigh.

A third voice broke the silence, a boy this time. “I’ll do it later, ‘Mione. I swear. Let’s wait till after Harry wakes up, yeah?”

“But you _definitely_ won’t do it _then_ ,” she sighed. “Why not do it while he’s asleep, and then you’ll be able to visit without worrying about it?”

“He’s behind too, isn’t he?” There was a rustling, as if somebody shifted in a chair. “We can work on it together. It’ll be better for both of us. Motivation, you know.”

“I suppose…” she answered skeptically.

“Really, why’d I have to miss a month of _summer_?” the boy groaned. “They couldn’t have cursed me on the first day of Herbology? I wouldn’t have minded missing a month of _school_.”

A girl’s voice protested the horror of having so much make-up work to do, but Harry barely registered it, for his brain jump-started at a very sudden realization. He was hearing Ron’s voice. _Ron!_

He jerked awake and shot into a sitting position as soon as his eyes opened. He caught a blur of bushy brown hair as a girl shrieked and jumped up from where she had been sitting on the foot of his bed, and he quickly fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table, put them on, and took in his visitors. A startled Hermione was clutching a textbook, a wide-eyed Ginny was sitting next to her in a chair, and…and _Ron_. His friend was sitting in another chair closer to Harry, the freckles on his pale skin standing out against his red hair. He looked…he looked… _alive_. More thin and pale than usual, but alive.

“Oy, mate, you alright?” Ron asked, and Harry blinked. It was him. It was really him! To his embarrassment, he thought he was about to cry. He could feel tears welling up behind his eyes. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to speak, so he tried to get out of bed instead. Only, his legs were still unsteady, and he didn’t do more than toss aside the covers and pivot to sitting on the side of the bed before Hermione protested, “Madame Pomfrey said you have to stay in bed. We’re only allowed in here on the condition that we let you rest!”

Harry didn’t care about Pomfrey’s orders, but he was grateful that Ron had stood and was now within reaching distance. He didn’t have to test out the steadiness of his legs to grab his best friend by the shirt and pull him, yelping, into a hug.

“Mate, you alright?” Ron asked again, softer this time, while he returned the hug. “We were worried about you.”

Harry barked a laugh and quickly swiped away a tear that escaped. “Me? You’re the one who was in a Death Eater coma!” he said hoarsely.

Ron pulled away and shrugged. “You mean my battle with old Voldy’s henchmen? I fought back, you know. And I made it, didn’t I? I’ve even got a scar to prove it!” Grinning, he pointed to the hairline next to his right ear. Harry didn’t see anything, but his vision _was_ a bit watery.

From behind him, Ginny rolled her eyes. “He’s been going on about his ‘grand battle’ ever since he woke up, and it gets more grand every hour. That’s not even a scar, Ron. It’s a scratch. You probably got it brushing your hair.”

“It’s a scar.” He threw his sister a glare and turned back to Harry. “The way I hear it, I’m not the only one to have gone into a Death Eater coma. It’s brilliant, mate - we’ve both missed classes and have to catch up, so we won’t have to be miserable alone!”

Hermione cleared her throat and dryly added, “Not that what happened to you was brilliant, Harry.”

Ron waved her off. “Y’know what I mean.”

Harry had so many questions, but most pressing was, “How long have you been awake?”

“Few days. Mum made me stay in bed most of the time. Bloody boring, that was. Made me complete some of my homework too, but I only began attending classes yesterday.” He nodded a chin in Hermione’s direction. “Hermione’s taken notes for us, so we’ll be caught up in no time.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry grinned, and she beamed.

“Really though, how are you?” she asked. “We’ve been worried sick. Dumbledore told us in strictest confidence that they had a way to get you out, but that’s all we were told for over a week! Nobody’s even said what happened, other than that Voldemort was involved.”

“I’m fine. A little sore, but fine,” he assured them, but all three were looking at him with expectant faces. “I…um, I can’t really tell you what happened.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, clearly hurt but trying not to show it. “Order stuff?”

“We’re practically in the Order, Harry,” wheedled Ron. “C’mon, you can tell us. It’s not like we’re going to blab about it to Malfoy and his cronies or something.”

Harry winced apologetically. “No, that’s not it. It’s not that I can’t…it’s that I…um, _can’t_.” Three faces looked at him with confusion. “I don’t remember.”

Ron scratched his ear. “Like, can’t remember the Death Eater coma? Well that’s alright, Harry, neither can I. Nobody expects you to remember that bit. We’re talking about what happened when you disappeared from Kneader’s. I hear you caused a big ruckus with that disappearing act. Oh,” he added conspiratorially, “speaking of, I met that Kneader bloke. My mum says he helped heal me, but if you ask me, he’s kind of shifty, don’t you think?”

“Ronald. Focus,” said Hermione.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “No, you don’t understand. See, I really can’t remember. Snape says whatever potion I was given messed with my memory a bit. I’ll get it back,” he assured at Ron’s look of horror. “Soon, hopefully. As soon as I know anything to tell you, I will, I swear.”

“Oh Harry, that’s awful,” moaned Hermione. “It doesn’t affect your mind in other ways, does it? You’re still going to be able to start classes on Monday?”

“Yes, because missing classes would be the absolute worst thing that’s happened to you this year,” Ginny said so seriously that Harry knew she wasn’t being serious and grinned. Hermione only rolled her eyes and grumbled something under her breath about “Weasleys.”

“Well, what happened at Kneader’s?” Harry asked. “Maybe you can tell me something that’ll jog my memory.”

“I guess I’ll sit this one out.” Ron sat back in his chair. “I was still out of it. Because I’d been been gravely injured in a wizard’s duel,” he said loudly and narrowed his eyes at Ginny as if daring her to contradict him, but she ignored her brother.

Hermione motioned for Harry to settle back into bed, which he did, and then reclaimed her perch next to Harry’s feet. “What do you want to know?”

Harry shrugged. “Everything. Anything. Snape said something about Remus and a meadow? I don’t remember talking to Remus at Kneader’s though. He was still sleeping off his injuries. The last thing I remember is talking to my snake friend, and then…nothing.”

“Lupin was under the Imperius Curse,” Hermione said gently.

Harry’s eyes went wide. “He what?”

Ron nodded. “You-Know-Who did it! They say he’s got all these powers now, and they didn’t know Lupin could still be cursed, but he was, and-”

“I thought you removed yourself from the conversation,” interrupted Ginny, “seeing as how you were recuperating from your _mighty battle_.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Ron shot back.

“Harry doesn’t mind me being here,” she said sweetly. “Do you, Harry?”

“’Course not,” Harry shook his head, too distracted to be either amused or irritated by the squabbling siblings. “Remus didn’t…he didn’t take me to Voldemort, did he?” he asked, horrified for his dad’s friend.

Hermione put a reassuring hand on his leg. “I don’t know how it happened, only that he had something to do with your capture, and that he’s fine now. I don’t know where he is, but Mrs. Weasley said he’s not under the curse any longer. I suppose Voldemort released him from it after they had you. I saw him when he came to. He felt really, really bad, Harry.”

Harry nodded, feeling sick for Remus. How awful, to be forced to betray a friend and not be able to stop yourself from doing it. “Did Snape see it?”

“Yeah, what’s with that?” Ron cut in. “Why’d Dumbledore make the git go with you to Kneader’s too? It’s like he wanted to give you the worst holiday in the history of holidays.”

Harry hummed a non-answer, not sure he wanted to go into his changed attitude towards his Potions professor right then. He could only imagine Ron’s reaction, and it wouldn’t be good. Or calm. Or rational. He’d probably assume Harry’d been left brain damaged by Voldemort’s potion or something.

Judging by Hermione’s sympathetic glance, she understood a little of what was going through his mind. “He wasn’t there,” she graciously deflected from Ron’s question. “But he arrived soon after. He was the one who raised the alarm, told us you were missing.”

Ginny nodded. “Charged in there like the place was on fire. I thought there’d been a Death Eater attack for sure.”

“When he told us you were missing, made us search the house for you in case he was wrong, we were so worried,” added Hermione.

“When we didn’t find you-”

“-and then Kneader brought Remus in with that snake bite-”

“-we thought the worst-”

“-the absolute worst! We were afraid we’d never see you again!” finished Hermione with a slight wobble to her voice. She jumped up and gathered Harry into a hug. “I was so scared I’d lost you both!” she cried against his shoulder.

“’S okay, Hermione.” Harry patted her back comfortingly. “I’m fine now, really. So’s Ron.”

She held him for another minute, sniffling, and then swiped a hand across her wet eyes. “Don’t you ever do that to me again! Either of you!” She swiveled to include Ron in her fierce glare.

Harry held up a hand. “I promise on my life I won’t die yet.”

“Me too,” said Ron. “May my ghost be driven insane by a flock of flying Fwoopers if I die or get all coma-fied again before you say I can.”

Hermione gave them both a small wobbly smile and a laugh before returning to her perch on the bed.

“Now, are you ready for the Hogwarts news?” inserted Ginny excitedly. “Because we’ve a new DADA teacher and a terrible beast living in the second floor of the west wing, not to mention mysterious rumors from the castle paintings.”

“Oh yeah,” Ron chimed in. “They’ve all gone nutters. More gossipy than a gaggle of witches at a robe shop. Hey!” He rubbed at his arm and glared at Ginny.

“Don’t mind them, Harry,” added Hermione. “The new DADA teacher seems normal and adequate, the ‘beast’ is Hagrid’s quite _tame_ \- really - find that Dumbledore’s already located a new home for, and the paintings are only gossiping more because there’s a war going on and you were missing. We’re all together again, nothing is amiss, and we’re going to have a _perfectly ordinary_ year.”

Ron scrunched his face in her direction when she wasn’t looking, and Harry secretly agreed with him. Perfectly ordinary years did not seem to be their lot in life. But a perfectly ordinary conversation could be, so he said, “Tell me all about it, Ginny. Don’t leave anything out.”

She obliged, and they all talked and bickered and laughed until they lost track of time and he couldn’t prevent himself from yawning. His body was tired, but his soul had needed this. Being with his friends, seeing them again and knowing that Ron was awake and going to be fine, lessened a weight on his heart that had become so constant, he’d almost forgotten it was there. It wasn’t until a dark shadow fell over them that they realized the curtain had been opened and they weren’t alone. The conversation died down and then stopped entirely as the four students registered Professor Snape’s presence.

“Mr. Potter requires his rest,” Snape sneered at his friends. “It is time to say goodnight.”

Ron looked as if he smelled something foul, and Harry jumped in before his friend could say something to get himself into trouble. “You’d better go. I _am_ pretty tired. We can talk more tomorrow morning, yeah?” He glanced at Snape, half afraid he was going to say something about his friends not visiting him again so soon, but the professor merely stood there without expression and watched them awkwardly exchange their good-byes.

As soon as they’d left, Harry said, “You don’t even have to _try_ to kill the mood, do you?”

“It is a gift,” Snape sniffed and placed some folded items of clothing on the bedside table. Harry recognized them as his own, and Snape answered his questioning glance. “The clothing you were wearing when you were taken. I’m afraid they’re rather worse for wear, but they are clean at the very least.”

“Thanks,” murmured Harry, and his eyes lit up at the next thing Snape handed him. “My wand!” He fingered the smooth wood, joy spreading from his fingertips through his body. “I must have been out of it today. I didn’t even think about it till now. Why was I without it?”

“It was taken from you,” was the simple reply. “The headmaster kept it safe.”

The next thing Snape handed him was his class schedule. He curiously looked it over. Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, Defense… He was disappointed to see the lack of Potions. Snape hadn’t changed his mind, then. He mentally sighed. He supposed he’d have to see if there was any other way around the Auror requirements. He turned it over and was surprised to see another sheet of parchment attached. It was filled with several columns and lines of writing. “What’s this?”

“Your study schedule for the coming week. In addition to attending classes, you will be expected to devote ample time to completing missed coursework. If you follow the schedule, which also allows for adequate time for your mind and body to rest, you will be entirely caught up within two weeks’ time.”

Harry dropped it to his lap and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t even get one day to myself first?”

“On the contrary,” countered Snape smoothly, “you have already had precisely one day.” Harry half-heartedly glared, but Snape was unfazed. “You will begin tomorrow. Madame Pomfrey has already been instructed that your friends are not to stay for an extended length of time unless they are actively instructing you in your missed classes.”

Well, Hermione would be pleased, at any rate. Ron, not so much.

“I trust that you completed your summer assignments?” Snape’s look communicated that the answer had better be yes, and Harry flushed.

“I…er, need to finish my Herbology essay,” he mumbled and quickly added, “I have a good start, and I _would_ have finished if I hadn’t up and lost the last week of summer.”

Snape shook his head and muttered something about “had all summer.” Louder, he said, “You will complete that first, and you will keep Professor McGonagall updated on your progress. You will also not forget to rest. And no Quidditch until you are caught up. Understood?”

Harry nodded, though he was feeling overwhelmed. The first month of school was difficult enough without starting out behind everyone else. He looked over the schedule. It was so…so _structured_. He grimaced.

Snape looked ready to leave, so he rushed to ask, “What about Occlumency?” He knew Snape had only agreed to help him until the end of the summer, but they had made real progress in their lessons, and maybe now that he had forgiven Harry, he would consider..? “Are we, I mean, am I going to have a schedule or something for that?” he fished. “I still have loads to learn, so…”

Snape’s face was carefully shuttered as he said, “As planned, the headmaster will be overseeing your Occlumency tutelage from this point. You shall need to inquire of him when he wishes to meet.”

“Oh.” Harry tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. That _had_ been the plan, after all, and a plan that he himself had wanted. He really shouldn’t be disappointed. “But…you’ll be, um…” He hesitated, not sure precisely how to ask what he wanted to know. _Will I still see you?_ sounded needy. And it didn’t seem to cover it. With no Potions and no Occlumency, and now with the entire staff of Hogwarts to keep him safe from Voldemort, what role would Snape even need to play in his year anyway? Or in his life, for that matter?

He knew the logical answer: none. Their arrangement was for the summer, and now the summer was over.

“McGonagall will oversee your academic progress,” Snape said neutrally. His expression was closed off and had been throughout his visit, and Harry had the feeling that he was doing it on purpose. Probably to make it clear that now that they were back at Hogwarts, Harry shouldn’t expect anything from him. And the message was received. “Madame Pomfrey will see to your physical needs.” He frowned and added, “If your memory returns, you are to summon Madame Pomfrey immediately, do you understand?”

“Why?” Harry asked numbly, trying not to be disappointed that he was apparently supposed to forget that the entire summer even happened. It figured that after years of hating Snape, he finally was free of him just when he was starting to enjoy his company.

“It might be a shock to your system,” explained Snape. “I can’t say for certain. If that should be the case, Madame Pomfrey can help you with a calming draught so that you will not be blindsided by a rapid deluge of memories and emotions.”

Harry nodded absently, though he didn’t really care about that right now. He was still focused on Snape, still trying to think of an excuse to see him without looking pathetic for wanting to do so. “What if I, um, have questions about Occlumency and Professor Dumbledore isn’t available?”

Snape hesitated before saying, “If you have any immediate need, of course you can come to me.” Those were the words that Harry wanted to hear, but the tone said something different. Snape was so stiff when he said it, it was obvious that the last thing he wanted was for Harry to come around bothering him with his silly teenage problems. Now that he had returned Harry’s things and made certain he knew his schedule and responsibilities, he was going to retreat to his dungeons. He had forgiven Harry, and they wouldn’t actively hate each other any longer, but that wasn’t enough reason for the professor to want to stay in his life. And that _hurt_. It hurt way more than he’d ever thought a rejection from Snape, of all people, could hurt. But it’s not like Snape owed him anything, did he? So he jerked a nod and mumbled, “thank you, sir.”

And that time when Snape left, his goodbye filled with formality and politeness, Harry had no doubt that the professor was saying a more permanent goodbye.

He removed his glasses, settled into his bed, and was glad nobody was around to see him blinking the wetness from his eyes.

* * *

Twisters. So many twisters surged through his mind, filled with ropes of memories and strings of emotion. He no sooner pulled on one string, than he became overwhelmed with sadness or anger or fear and had to pull another to escape it, only to find himself awash in joy or hope or love. Then he switched to the ropes, but that was even more jarring. Memories. Too many memories. Bits of spoken words flew through his mind with dizzying speed:

_Dog-human sssmellss of evil._

_Harry Potter. How kind of you to drop in._

_Love never toppled nations, boy. That takes power._

_Did you imagine that he felt love for you? He never had a child of his own, after all._

_Wee wittle baby Potter is going to cry!_

_Revenge is yours, Harry Potter. Take it._

_You should have been_ my _son._

_Now…we live._

He gasped and opened his eyes. He remembered. He remembered _all_ of it - capture, torture, fear, hope, horror, secrets, shock, forgiveness, death - and it was so sudden, so powerful, so _overwhelming_. He felt ripped apart from the inside, raw and bleeding. He needed something to ground him. He reached into his pocket, where he kept his mother’s stone, but he wasn’t wearing the same trousers. He threw the covers off him and scrambled to the folded clothing Snape had left.

He hitched a breath as he realized that the trouser pockets were empty. The stone was gone. Between Voldemort’s clearing and the week he was under the potion, or maybe through the course of Snape’s rescue, the stone had to have fallen out of his pocket. The only thing he had from his mother besides one page of an old letter, and he’d lost it.

He slid to the ground and hugged his knees to his chest. He shivered violently as a sense of loss ripped through his heart as if it were a physical blow. It was a just a tiny, worthless stone, he knew, but it had been priceless to him.

His fingers found Snape’s ring on his hand where Voldemort had left it after forcing him to use it. The dark wizard hadn’t found it useful anymore, Harry supposed, so he’d forgotten about it. At least he hadn’t lost that, though he assumed Snape would want it back soon. He took a long, slow breath and let it out, flexing his fingers to feel the weight of the ring. He didn’t use it. He was tempted to, but Snape had said it was for emergencies. If he used it now, it would probably only be taken away sooner.

But still…he wanted Snape. He felt like a little kid admitting that, even if only to himself, but it was true. He was afraid. He knew he was safe at Hogwarts, safe in the Hospital Wing, but he felt exposed and scared. Throughout his ordeal, he’d felt safer whenever Snape was with him. The man always had a plan, always knew what to do, and he always made sure that Harry made it out of danger okay. Just knowing the man was nearby helped to keep some of the nightmares at bay, or at least helped him to know that he could survive the nightmares.

But he was no longer Snape’s responsibility. The professor clearly wanted to forget this summer ever happened. It wasn’t a surprise; he’d expected it. Why would Snape, of all people, be any different than the other grown-ups in his life?

His mind knew that, but his heart didn’t care. It also didn’t care that he was too old for nightmares or for fear. It just cared that his mind was filled with an influx of horror and torture and hunger and of watching his teacher die-but-not-die, and Pomfrey wouldn’t do; he needed Snape. Over and over, so desperately that he wondered that his thoughts couldn’t be heard out loud, he wished for his professor to remember this summer and to come help the nightmares from taking him over.

But Snape never came.


	50. Back to School

The morning dawned earlier than it had any right to do, sunlight streaming in through the Hospital Wing windows. It was joined by the faint sound of chirping birds.

Harry hadn’t slept. Oh, he had dozed on and off, but his mind was too full, too on guard against the nightmares he knew would be coming, that it never lasted for long. Consequently, he’d had plenty of time to think through everything that had happened. And he honestly didn’t know which was the bigger revelation: that he might soon be powerful enough to take on Voldemort, or that Snape had loved his mum and inadvertently betrayed his parents.

They were both pretty earth-shattering revelations.

He had felt overwhelmed by it all at first, which had morphed into anger partway through the night. What was up with Voldemort, always going after Harry and giving him strange powers he never asked for? And how dare Snape cut ties and run just when Harry had finally warmed up to him, finally started to feel a little less alone? He wanted to rail at them both. Well…maybe from a distance. That seemed safer. But he definitely wanted an opportunity to yell and maybe throw a few things at the both of them, even if he was too far away to hit his mark. He had risen from his spot on the floor next to the bed, and he had angrily paced until he realized he was still too weak to keep it up for longer than a few seconds, and then settled into the bed to punch his pillow a few times.

The anger didn’t last. Around midnight, it had turned into nervousness, tinged with fear, at what new powers might mean for him.

 _If_ he had new powers. He tried to pull up the sparks of magic but couldn’t. He even cautiously tried a few spells with his wand, but his magic worked the same as it always had. Could his dream self have been mistaken? Maybe he _wasn’t_ growing more powerful. Maybe whatever happened back there with Voldemort and his Death Eaters was a fluke. It confused him too much to dwell on for long.

So he thought of Snape again, and that’s when his mood shifted to resigned. He felt quite a few things at Snape’s apparent intention to extricate himself from Harry’s life after all they’d been through: sadness, disappointment, annoyance, anger. But one thing he couldn’t claim was surprise. He had known Snape would do this, had expected it. Had even witnessed him try to distance himself from Harry earlier in the summer. Snape didn’t do closeness. Compound that with his having confessed to Harry some of his most closely held secrets, and it was no wonder the guarded man didn’t want to be in the same room as Harry.

And in a way, it helped to know that Snape was the type to avoid him out of discomfort. It meant that the professor didn’t necessarily have to be angry at Harry in order to turn his back on him. It meant that Harry could believe that he had been forgiven for the Wall Watchers incident and that Snape had meant the confession that he cared what happened to Harry now. Snape distancing himself didn’t negate any of that. It was simply Snape being Snape.

And anyway, what did he expect? For Snape to drop everything and be Harry’s full-time tutor? Their arrangement had only been for the summer. He _knew_ that. Snape had never promised him anything beyond that, so he had no right to be disappointed or hurt, really.

He lifted his chin. He’d be fine. He would. He hadn’t needed Snape before this summer, and he would be perfectly fine without him now.

“Ah, Mr. Potter.” He was so startled by Madame Pomfrey’s voice as she whipped the curtains aside that he nearly fell out of bed. “You’re awake, I see. Good, good. And how are you feeling this morning?”

“Um, better?” He wasn’t sure what was the right answer, but he knew complaining that he was still sore all over and dog-tired and had a splitting headache wouldn’t get him out of the Hospital Wing and into Gryffindor Tower any faster. On second thought…he _could_ do without the headache. So he admitted to that and only that.

“Well, we’ll see to that headache, why don’t we?” she smiled and waved her wand over him, then frowned. “A bit of a fever, dear. We’ll take care of that too, get you right as rain, but I think you’d best rest up here for another day at least.”

He groaned. “Can’t I go to the Tower? I want to see my friends-”

“And how much rest will your friends be letting you have in the Tower, hmm?” she asked pointedly, and he hemmed and hawed until they both knew she’d won. She smiled gently. “You can have some visitors today, so long as they don’t rile you up too much.”

He sank back into his bed and gave her a resigned nod.

As it turned out, it was probably a good thing that she hadn’t allowed him to leave. Between the schedule Snape had given him and Hermione’s insistence on following it, he had to study almost all day in order to even begin to catch up to his classmates. By lunchtime, he was tempted to drop out of school even though he hadn’t attended a single class. How could there be so much homework after only _one week_?

“It’s sixth year, Harry,” Hermione said without pity. “Next year are our NEWTs. If we don’t study hard now, we’ll be behind where we need to be for the most important exams of our lives!”

“I know, ‘Mione.” Harry tried to keep a straight face when he caught Ron rolling his eyes behind her back. “Um. It’s just…I’d like a bit of fun too, you know.”

“And no, studying isn’t fun,” Ron piped up before she could say anything. “How about a break?”

“We’ve already taken a break,” Hermione said pertly, but her eyes softened when Harry held up his hands in a silent _please_. “Fine. A break. But not too long!” she insisted with a grin at Ron’s hoop of victory. “I promised McGonagall personally that I would help you to stay on track.”

Unfortunately for Hermione’s plans, Pomfrey kicked her and Ron out of the Hospital Wing soon after so that Harry could rest. As soon as the door closed behind them, she drew his curtains closed and ordered him to nap.

He didn’t want to nap. His friends had been a good distraction, but now that he was alone, he feared what nightmares would invade his mind if he allowed himself to sleep. Still, he was exhausted, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from staying closed a second too long, and before he knew it, he was bolting awake with a scream on his lips. As soon as he registered the curtains around his hospital bed, he was actually grateful to be there and not in the Tower. It meant that no one was there to witness his panicked eyes as they scanned the small space for any sign of Voldemort or his Death Eaters. It’s not as if his dorm mates weren’t used to his occasional nightmare, but he still burned with embarrassment every time it happened. And he had a feeling it would be happening more frequently for a while. He was relieved at the thought of the small stockpile of Dreamless Sleep he still had in his trunk. It should get him through a few nights, and then maybe school would be a sufficient enough distraction to ward off the nightmares for a while. But thinking of past years, he doubted it.

That night, he asked Pomfrey for some more doses of the potion to take with him. Just in case.

* * *

Monday morning, he had breakfast in the Great Hall. Madame Pomfrey hadn’t wanted to let him - “You still look quite peaky, young man” - but he had won the argument that if he was well enough to try to attend classes, then he was well enough to eat breakfast with his classmates. Truthfully, he was exhausted and didn’t know if he was well enough to do either yet, but he was itching to see his friends and to get back to some semblance of normalcy. And anyway, what was the alternative? Sitting alone, staring at walls, trying desperately not to sleep? No, thank you.

Snape was there. He was seated with the other teachers and he didn’t talk to anyone and he didn’t look at Harry even once. Harry knew, because he spent nearly as much time watching Snape out of the corner of his eye as he did fielding questions from his classmates. No one except for Hermione and the Weasleys had been told where he’d been, and he learned that there were countless rumors. One person asked if it were true that he’d been in a terrible accident in Spain and only just been released from hospital. Another person asked if he had gone into hiding from Death Eaters in Russia. Some of the theories were extreme - no, he assured Lavender, he had not been bitten by a werewolf - and others quite ordinary - “No, Seamus, I didn’t have my tonsils out” - and he wished he’d thought to rehearse a story to tell them. He really didn’t want to admit that he’d been kidnapped by Voldemort for the simple reason that he didn’t want to be peppered with questions about it. So he dodged one question after another until Hermione and Ron (proving themselves to be the best friends in the entire universe) ran interference for him.

Finally, they got the hint and moved on to other topics. Which weren’t much better, as it turned out. “You heard why Crabbe was out, didn’t you?” Dean leaned over Ron so he wouldn’t have to yell to be heard.

Harry shook his head, trying not to think of Crabbe Sr., because that led to thoughts of Voldemort, and of Snape, and- No. Too much thinking to be had there. He closed the door on his thoughts and paid attention to the conversation around him.

“His dad went missing,” filled in Seamus from across the table. “Poof, vanished, no sign of him. Probably dead.”

Harry felt a pit in his stomach. He automatically scanned the Slytherin table, locating a wan-looking Crabbe. He didn’t like the boy, but he felt a surge of sympathy despite himself. And foreboding. Did Snape kill Crabbe? He wouldn’t, would he? He _was_ an ex-Death Eater, but…murder? And if he did, how much responsibility for the younger Crabbe’s loss fell on Harry’s shoulders? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to any of those questions, so he pushed them to the back of his mind.

“No loss there,” Ron added in between bites of potatoes. “One less Death Eater to worry about.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, “but…well, it’s probably not easy to lose a dad, no matter how bad he might have been.”

His friends didn’t answer except for an understanding hand on his arm from Hermione, and soon enough they had moved on to a new topic. But Harry couldn’t be bothered to follow along. His eyes were on Snape again, wondering just what else the man had had to do to save him. By now certain that the professor was intentionally ignoring him, he scanned his eyes across the rest of the head table. He frowned. “Why’s a student sitting up there with the professors?” The wiry boy with freckles and curly brown hair didn’t look familiar, so he couldn’t be in Gryffindor, but he looked old enough that he was probably in seventh year. He was smiling widely, his eyes dancing at something Hagrid said from next to him.

“Oh, that’s Professor Brooks,” supplied Ginny. “Our new Defense instructor.”

Harry scrunched up his face in confusion. “Dumbledore hired a student?”

“He’s twenty-three,” said Lavender conspiratorially. “I know because Becky Newsome - you know, the Hufflepuff seventh year? - she remembers him from when she was a first year. He was in Hufflepuff too.”

Harry looked doubtfully at the new professor, wondering if he had enough experience to teach them much of anything. Dumbledore didn’t usually hire professors young enough to be able to pass for students. Or - did he? He sneaked another peak at the other side of the head table, and it occurred to him that Snape had been near that age when Dumbledore had hired him, and his Potions skills were undeniable. Harry himself had taught plenty to his classmates at only fifteen. So maybe age didn’t matter so much? It might even be fun to have a young teacher.

“He _does_ look young,” Hermione piped up, “But he’s decent so far. He’s really nice, and he doesn’t mind questions, and he seems genuinely excited to be teaching.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, like a puppy with a new chew toy.”

“Well what would you know?” defended Hermione. “You’ve only been to one Defense class so far!”

“He got over the moon excited to talk to me about make-up work! It was like he couldn’t wait to teach the first week all over again.” He turned to Harry, brows raised. “Don’t let him rope you into private lessons. The man’s mad about tutoring, you’ll never get away.”

Hermione playfully swatted at Ron, missing when he dodged away with a grin. “Oh, don’t listen to him, Harry. Professor Brooks might offer, but he won’t push.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “Not that it would hurt you to take him up on it. You don’t want to fall further behind.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum, his attention wandering back to Snape. Even a new teacher couldn’t distract him for long. The Potions professor still hadn’t looked at Harry, not even once.

* * *

It was a battle to stay awake in History of Magic, but he managed with Hermione’s prodding. It helped to have a free period afterward, except that watching Hermione head for her class in the dungeons served as another reminder that he wouldn’t be taking Potions this year. He sighed miserably and walked outside with Ron, eager at least to spend some time outdoors.

The moment he stepped foot on the grass and looked up to see the bright blue sky and felt a breeze that heralded the beginning of autumn, he halted in his tracks, causing Ron to run into him with an _oomph_. He should probably apologize but he couldn’t speak. It was just…the world was so _beautiful_. He felt connected to it in a way he’d never noticed before. It was subtle, so subtle that the awareness would probably fade to the background after a while, but it was real, that feeling that the trees and grass and sky were somehow connected to him. He felt as if he only had to reach out with his magic and they would respond.

It was then that he realized he felt different. He hadn’t realized it before, but some part of him had been different ever since he’d woken up at that cottage with Snape. It was…it was… There was something new inside his soul that felt _alive_.

“Alright, Harry?” asked Ron behind him, and Harry nodded dumbly and made his way to the lake, ignoring Ron’s worried looks.

He had told his friends about the capture in between studying on Sunday, but he had left out a lot of details, like the extent of the torture and everything personal that he and Snape had talked about. He had also left out what had happened between his mind and Voldemort’s, and about the possibility that he had more access to magic. Oh, he had told them about how Voldemort tried to Legilimize him, and that he had somehow managed to break the connection, but he left it at that. He knew he would fill them in sooner or later, but he needed to understand it first himself.

He was glad that after a few minutes of conversation, Ron was content to laze about in silence. It gave Harry time to think, time to get used to the heightened awareness he felt by merely touching the blades of grass under his fingertips. In this moment, he knew intuitively that he could wield magic in ways he hadn’t been able to before, even if he had no rational understanding of _how_. He felt powerful. And oddly enough, it felt nice, like he was covered by a warm blanket, and not at all scary like he’d imagined.

* * *

It was Wednesday. Harry was making progress on his schoolwork but felt discouraged each time his professors gave out a new assignment that he knew he’d have to add to his growing list. It would probably help if he weren’t so distracted all the time. It’s not as if he could help himself. He’d even managed to put recent events out of his mind, mostly. Well…except for when Neville had accidentally knocked over a book in Charms and Harry had jumped so suddenly that he’d toppled his chair. His classmates had _loved_ that. Or when he’d thought he heard Bellatrix Lestrange’s laughter in the hallway and his heart about burst from the adrenaline as he looked every which way to spot her. He didn’t think most people had noticed how jumpy he was lately, but Hermione and Ron definitely had. It was embarrassing. It’s not like Harry hadn’t gone through bad stuff before. He wasn’t a wilting flower.

Snape still didn’t look his way at mealtimes, which he tried to pretend didn’t hurt. He had even toyed with the idea of confronting Snape in his office after his last class, forcing him to look at Harry, to talk to him. But what would that accomplish? If Snape didn’t want to be near him when he was minding his own business, how much more would he want to run if Harry turned into a needy pest?

And anyway, Snape was proving himself as unapproachable as ever. Perhaps more so. _Everyone_ had noticed.

“A right git,” Dean was saying, as one of the few Gryffindor sixth years to have made it into Advanced Potions. “It was only one less pinch than was called for, barely even changed the color of the potion, and you’d have thought I’d blown up his classroom!”

“He _was_ rather temperamental this morning,” Hermione said distractedly as she flipped through the pages of her Herbology textbook. Along with Ron and Seamus, they were spread out with their books next to the Gryffindor common room fire.

Dean made a face. “Temperamental? Try homicidal!”

“At least he wasn’t singling you out,” Hermione pointed out, briefly glancing up. “He even snapped at Malfoy and Zabini.”

“Snape came down on _Malfoy_?” Ron asked with undisguised glee. “Tell me all about it! Don’t leave anything out.”

Hemione shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell, really. Nobody made any big mistakes, but there _were_ some mistakes. I think Professor Snape was just in a mood. It can’t be easy catching an entire school up on a missed week of learning.”

That was another thing Harry had learned after talking with his classmates: the entire first week of Potions classes had been canceled. Harry knew it was because of him, even if most of the other students didn’t, and he felt bad about it. He’d caused so much disruption to Snape’s schedule, not to mention to all of the students who now had to deal with having to catch up. Logically, he knew it was Voldemort’s fault, but that didn’t erase the niggling feeling of guilt.

“Hermione,” Ron said patronizingly. “It’s Snape. He’s always _in a mood_.”

“Maybe,” Hermione conceded with a thoughtful expression, “but this is different. It’s not like his usual impatience, more like he’s on edge about something.”

“Yeah, on edge about _life_ ,” muttered Ron. “I don’t envy you having to spend so much time with him this summer, Harry. I bet you didn’t think you’d make it out alive half the time.”

Harry thought about responding sarcastically - and truthfully - that no, he really hadn’t thought he’d make it out alive at the end there. But he wasn’t in the mood to bring up Voldemort _or_ dodge around the topic of Snape. He’d been dodging it every time Ron brought him up, not quite ready to tell his best friend that he’d changed his mind about Snape. He wasn’t ready to defend himself, and it’s not like he needed to, with how Snape wasn’t even acknowledging his existence these days. Instead, he shrugged and pretended to focus on a chapter in his Transfiguration textbook.

He didn’t miss the curious looks of Dean and Seamus, but they were kind enough not to push. They and Neville knew a little more about his summer than the rest of the school, but their knowledge was limited to the fact that Harry had had to spend some time with Snape and that he had been captured by Voldemort and managed to escape. Harry was glad he’d decided to tell them that much. It would make it easier to explain away the nightmares. Not that he’d had any since that first day. He hadn’t worked up the courage to go to sleep without Dreamless Sleep yet. He would. Just…not yet.

It was nice. Without nightmares to remind him, and with school to distract him, he had forced the bulk of what had happened at Voldemort’s lair to the back of his mind and left it there. And if he was a bit jumpy sometimes, well, he couldn’t help that.

He did wonder what was up with Snape. He’d been watching the professor closely at mealtimes in the Great Hall, and the man had seemed to grow more irritable each day. He didn’t even bother to hide his disdain for Hagrid’s loud tales or his annoyance at Dumbledore’s attempts to engage him in conversation. At dinner that night, he’d only stared at his food with a pinched expression until he’d eaten a few bites and abruptly excused himself from the table.

Harry agreed with Hermione. It wasn’t Snape’s usual temper that was at play. Something was bothering the man, and he was overcome with curiosity to know what it was.

But until he figured out how to get Snape to so much as look at him, he’d have no way of finding out.

* * *

It was Friday. It had been nearly a full week since Harry’s return to school, and the gossip surrounding his strange absence was already being replaced by talk of new Quidditch team rosters and upcoming Hogsmeade weekends. Even Snape’s mood swings were old news, though they hadn’t improved. The man had glowered at his meal all through breakfast that morning, and his chair had been empty at lunch. Harry had taken to guessing when students in the hallway were about to head to the dungeons for Potions, not by the direction they were walking, but by the dread on their faces.

Otherwise, things were nearly back to normal. He’d even been able to attend Quidditch tryouts, albeit as a spectator. Pomfrey hadn’t given Harry permission to fly until after tryouts were over, but Hermione had kept him company on the stands to watch. It was amazing, he thought, how quickly the routine of school overshadowed the stress of a summer hiding from and being a “guest” of Voldemort. He hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying around a weight in his chest until it began to ease. It helped that his teachers were all giving him time and help to catch up. He had a lot of work still to do, but with Hermione’s help and the peace of being at Hogwarts, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

He was ready for the weekend, even if he would be required to study more than everybody else, and he grinned as he opened a note Ron had passed him under the desks.

_Flying after class?_

They were more than ready for a break from studying, and flying sounded like the perfect distraction. Harry gave a subtle nod and ignored Hermione’s narrowed eyes from his other side. She couldn’t have seen what the note said, but she wouldn’t appreciate their not paying attention. She’d placed herself in the role of taskmaster, keeping both Harry and Ron on track with their schoolwork until they were caught up. But she couldn’t keep at it all the time, especially as she had Potions after DADA on Fridays.

“Can anyone tell me the primary purpose of nonverbal spells in noncombat situations?” asked Professor Brooks.

Hermione’s hand shot up.

Brooks smiled kindly at her but looked around. “Anyone else?” He seemed to deflate a little bit when no one else raised their hand, then gestured to Hermione, who was all too eager to answer.

Ron wasn’t the only one half paying attention to the class. Malfoy and Goyle were talking in hushed tones in the corner, and Harry saw somebody toss a note across the aisle.

Professor Brooks pretended not to see or hear anything, though it was obvious by his faltering grin that he was anything but oblivious.

Hermione had been right about the professor. He _was_ kind and enthusiastic about teaching. He even knew a decent amount about Defense, which was a vast improvement over some of their previous DADA professors. He might turn out to be as good a teacher as Remus with a bit of time and practice. But the poor fellow didn’t have a prayer when it came to commanding respect. It wasn’t only that he looked so young, though that didn’t help. It was that he wanted so badly to be liked that he didn’t know how to be in charge.

Snape could certainly give him a few pointers, Harry thought. The Potions professor may not be a kind or particularly likable teacher, but he had more control over his classroom than any other teacher at Hogwarts, with the possible exception of McGonagall. All _he_ had to do was whisper or twitch a finger, and his entire class would be on their best behavior.

And there he went, thinking about Snape again. He sighed. It’s like the man was always only a thought away from the front of his mind. He chided himself and tried to pay attention to the lesson. Only by now, half of the class wasn’t even pretending to listen, and Brooks looked so dejected that Harry predicted the man would give up soon and let them out early. Again.

Sure enough, Brooks ended class ten minutes early and Harry packed up his books, eager to go flying with Ron. Before he could head out, Brooks stopped him with a “Mr. Potter, please stay a moment?”

Harry gestured to Ron and Hermione to head out without him, then dutifully made his way to the professor’s desk.

“The headmaster wishes to see you after class,” Brooks held out a small piece of paper.

“Thanks,” he murmured, unfolding the note. It read simply, _Frosted Sugarberries_.

“How is your makeup work coming along?” the young professor asked with a smile.

“Um…all right.” He scratched his neck and hoped he wasn’t going to be quizzed, because he hadn’t made it very far in his DADA readings yet.

Thankfully, Brooks didn’t push. “You know, you’re a natural dueler,” he said instead.

“Oh. Thanks,” Harry shrugged. “But, I mean, I only got out one jinx…”

“But the blocking!” the man’s eyes lit up. “Your reflexes are top notch!”

Harry grinned at the praise. He’d been relieved when Brooks had led the class outside on Tuesday to practice dueling. He didn’t think he could stand another year without practical lessons.

“Perhaps you would be willing to demonstrate a proper Shield Charm for the class next week?” Brooks asked, bouncing on his feet slightly, as if his excitement couldn’t be contained behind a pair of black teacher robes.

“Er…” He didn’t really want to, but looking at the professor’s hopeful face, he couldn’t say no. “Yeah, okay.”

Brooks beamed. “Excellent!”

It was a good thing, Harry reflected on his way to the headmaster’s office, that the new Defense professor was overflowing with energy and positivity. He’d need both in spades if he couldn’t figure out the _teaching_ part of teaching.

“Frosted Sugarberries,” he said to the gargoyle, which immediately moved aside. He clutched Dumbledore’s note in his hand and took the moving staircase to the office door.

Other than a brief visit in the Hospital Wing, the headmaster had given him a wide berth since his return. Harry hadn’t minded, to be honest. It was nice to be able to get back to school and his friends without worrying about recounting his horrid experience for the headmaster. But he’d known the man would want to speak with him sooner or later, and it appeared that the time had arrived.

He knocked, heard an “Enter,” and pushed open the door. The headmaster was sitting at his desk but rose to his feet at the sight of Harry. “Come in, Harry, please,” he gestured to a chair in front of his desk and moved to take a seat in one next to it. Harry noticed as he sat that though Dumbledore was smiling politely, he was missing his customary eye twinkle. He looked old and worn, as if he had a great weight on his shoulders.

“Is everything all right, sir?” he asked tentatively.

The headmaster smiled gently. “Quite all right, Harry. I’ve a few difficult things requiring my attention, that is all. Thank you for asking. More importantly, how are _you_ faring? Professor McGonagall tells me that you have made adequate strides in catching up to your peers.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.” He added, “I’m not all caught up, but the professors have all been decent about giving me extra time.”

“Very good, very good,” nodded Dumbledore. “And you are getting on well with Professor Brooks?”

“Yeah. He’s cool,” he said sincerely. He thought about telling Dumbledore that he might want to help out his newest professor with some class management tips, but he didn’t want to get the man in trouble.

“I am glad to hear that,” said Dumbledore, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “And I trust that you are feeling recovered. You look well rested.”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded again. He _did_ feel better. He hadn’t had to deal with nightmares since the first day, his bruises had completely faded, and he felt happy to be back with his friends.

“May I offer a refreshment?” Dumbledore offered. “Water? Pumpkin juice?”

“Um, pumpkin juice, please,” Harry said and then asked, “I suppose you want to talk about what happened with Voldemort?”

Dumbledore leisurely conjured two glasses of pumpkin juice. As he handed one to Harry, he said gently, “As much as I dislike bringing up unpleasant memories, Harry, we do need to discuss it. I only wished to allow you time to acclimate to school first.”

Harry took a slow sip of his juice. He really didn’t want to talk about what had happened, but he knew that it was unavoidable. He took a deep, even breath and let it out. “What do you want to know about it?”

Dumbledore gave him a long measuring look. “Professor Snape has given me a full account of what he witnessed and what he gathered occurred in his absence. He was very thorough. I think you and I perhaps ought to discuss what happened between your mind and Voldemort’s.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I…well, he tried to Legilimize me, I guess? And I fought back, and it eventually worked.”

After several seconds of silence, Dumbledore prodded, “And how did it work, Harry?”

Harry shifted in his seat. He’d thought about Other Harry’s words to him, but he hadn’t said them out loud to anybody yet, not even his friends. Especially not his friends. He didn’t want them to start treating him differently. But Dumbledore really ought to know. What’s more, he would help Harry, or at least would try.

He sat up straight. “See, it’s like this. Remember my dreams? Of the future? How you thought it could maybe be my Inner Eye or something?”

Dumbledore nodded, his full attention on Harry.

He took a deep breath. “He was. _Is_. My Inner Eye, I mean. He came to me again, and he told me what he meant before.” He leaned forward so Dumbledore would know how important this was. “He told me why Voldemort’s plan is flawed.” He paused, trying to think of the best way to relay what Other Harry had said.

Before he’d decided where to begin, Dumbledore interjected, “Perhaps I could hazard a guess. Does the flaw have to do with the flow of power between your minds?”

Harry nodded, wide-eyed. “How’d you know?”

Dumbledore smiled and Harry was glad to see a slight twinkle enter his eyes. “With over a century of magical experience, one does learn a thing or two about putting together Seer puzzles.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Dumbledore went on, “it makes sense, after what Professor Snape described. Voldemort had gained power through magical use of the physical properties of your blood. How that served to make him more powerful is still somewhat of a mystery, but I would hazard a guess that due to your unique mental connection, the traces of magic within your physical bodies - your blood, specifically - recognized each other. You share a connection so deep that when Voldemort used your blood in a potion to restore him to full physical life, it interacted in an unpredictable way. You are not _merely_ enemies, after all, which is all that his potion had called for. You are something more, a fact that somehow added to the potion’s effects.”

“And then…then he didn’t figure on the mental connection getting in his way,” Harry prodded, eager to hear what Dumbledore may have pieced together about that.

“No, I don’t imagine he did,” the headmaster said with a smile. “And I imagine that your Inner Eye informed you that you have been taking Voldemort’s newfound power away from him and into yourself each time that you overpowered his attempts on your mind.”

He nodded. “So I’m…” he hesitated, not sure he wanted to say it out loud, but he did. “I’m more…powerful now.”

“So it would seem,” Dumbledore said calmly. Too calmly. Way more calmly than Harry thought that pronouncement deserved.

“I don’t _feel_ more powerful,” he said and then quickly corrected himself, “Well, no… No, I mean, I do, but I don’t. See, it’s like I’m more aware of the magic in the world around me now. It’s kind of trippy, actually,” he confided. “I _do_ feel more powerful, more, um…connected to magic? But when I go to _use_ my magic, nothing’s different.”

Dumbledore took a measured sip of his pumpkin juice. “I imagine that it will be, once your body has acclimated itself to the changes in your magical core. And once you have practice drawing upon additional reserves of power.”

Harry thought about that a minute, then asked, “Aren’t you worried about what that means, professor? What if…what if it takes over, or I can’t control it?”

“You have not had any incidents thus far, I assume?” Dumbledore asked as unconcerned as if he were inquiring about the weather.

“No,” Harry shook his head. “Only the feeling different, like I said. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like…when I was in that meadow with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and then again with the ceremony, I could _see_ magic. I really could - I could _see_ it!” he emphasized, pretty sure he sounded nutters, but Dumbledore seemed to be taking him seriously. “And I haven’t seen it since I’ve been back, but I…I dunno, it’s like I _feel_ it, like it’s all around me, waiting for me to tell it what to do, but I don’t know how to reach it or even if I should.”

“You have tried?” Dumbledore asked just as calmly.

Harry shrugged. “Well, yeah…sorta. I tried a little bit, the other day. But…but I’m afraid to try too hard,” he admitted and looked away. “What if I manage it, and I hurt somebody?”

“From what I understand, you need not worry that it is your first time wielding a great amount of power,” Dumbledore said matter of factly. “You did so while in Voldermort’s domain, and you seem to have managed to direct it quite well for a novice.”

Harry looked at the headmaster doubtfully. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue.

“Nonetheless, you need not worry quite yet,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “Your magic is stronger than it was, yes, but I’d wager that it will become stronger still. Now is the ideal time for you to begin to learn how to access it and then to control it.”

Harry drank some more pumpkin juice and set it on the table. Then, before he quite knew what he was going to say, he blurted out, “I want Professor Snape to teach me.”

He watched Dumbledore carefully, but the man only blinked.

“Nothing against you, sir,” he rushed on, “or whoever else you have pegged for the job, but I think it has to be him, don’t you? I know he probably doesn’t want to teach me anymore, but he’s good at it. Better than I thought he’d be, even if he was pants at it last year. Not that I was perfect either,” he rambled at Dumbledore’s silence. “It’s…I only mean that he turned out to be good at teaching me Occlumency, and he really understands Voldemort, you know? And the second prophecy!” he added quickly. “He’s _supposed_ to guide me, right? And maybe he didn’t sign up for tutoring a special case for the rest of the year, but...well, you could talk to him, couldn’t you? Try to convince him to give it a shot?”

Dumbledore didn’t try to interrupt him, but his eyes were sad. It was making Harry nervous. “Couldn’t you..?” he trailed off. He knew Snape was quite willing to wash his hands of Harry, but if anyone could convince the stubborn professor to change his mind, it would be Dumbledore.

The headmaster heaved a great sigh and looked Harry in the eyes, and he was certain he wasn’t going to like what the man was going to say. “Harry…” he began, then paused as if to gather his thoughts. “I would like nothing more than for you and Professor Snape to continue the lessons you began. I believe that you have been good for each other, and you have made great progress in so short a time.”

“But?” Harry asked, already dejected.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that now is not a good time. Professor Snape’s energies are currently being devoted to another matter of great importance.”

He slumped into his chair. “Is it for the Order?” he asked, even though he didn’t expect to be told. “Is he working on a new potion or spy stuff or something? Is that why he’s in a bad mood lately?”

The headmaster gave a small smile. “It is not specifically Order related, but as with a great many things, if successful, Professor Snape’s project will only benefit our side. That is all you need know,” he added kindly but with an air of finality when Harry made to ask another question. “I will ask you to consider this matter settled for the time being.”

Harry sighed and nodded. “How- how’s Remus?” he asked to distract them both from his obvious disappointment about Snape. “I thought maybe he’d stop by to see me by now, but I haven’t even had a letter.” He could tell by Dumbledore’s expression that it had been the wrong question to ask. The headmaster was positively oozing reluctance at having to let Harry down again. Before the man could do so, he answered his question himself. “He doesn’t want to see me either,” he concluded, feeling irritation bubble up inside him. Both Snape and Remus had in one way or another started to be there for Harry, and now neither one wanted anything to do with him. Great. Just great.

“It is not that Remus does not wish to see you, Harry,” said Dumbledore gently, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “You must understand that he cares for you a great deal. His betrayal of you, however unintentional, has been difficult for him to come to terms with. I believe that he is trying to avoid causing you pain-”

“Bullshit,” interrupted Harry. He shrugged off Dumbledore’s hand and rose to his feet. He balled his hands into fists, determined not to lose his temper like he’d done a few months ago in this office. As it is, he’d lucky to not be in trouble for cursing at the headmaster. “Sorry,” he said through clenched teeth, “but it is. He’s not looking out for me. He’s avoiding me because it’ll be uncomfortable for _him_.”

“Harry-”

“I’m right and you know I’m right!” Harry said darkly, working really, really hard not to yell. “Same with Professor Snape. He doesn’t like getting close with people, fine. I get it. Whatever. And Remus feels all guilty. Yeah, I know. But them not talking to me isn’t helping _me_. It’s only more comfortable for _them_. They’re both taking the coward’s way out, and you know it!”

Dumbledore didn’t insult his intelligence by denying it, only gave him a look filled with understanding and sympathy. Even though it didn’t fix the situation, it helped to know he’d been heard, and that Dumbledore wasn’t going to try to placate him like a child. He fell into his seat again, losing steam at the prospect of no one to fight with.

“I am truly sorry for the pain you have been through this past year, Harry,” Dumbledore said softly. “You have borne it with grace and courage. Not everyone would be so capable.”

 _Like Remus and Snape?_ he wanted to ask sarcastically, but he didn’t. Still, his own thoughts made him even more depressed, because as angry as he wanted to be with both men, he could still understand their actions and forgive them. Neither man had had an easy life, after all, and neither one had signed up to have a teenager underfoot. They had no obligation to him, really, so what right did Harry have to be upset with either one? He ran a hand tiredly over his eyes and hoped that Ron hadn’t gone flying without him. He was in sore need of a distraction.

“Could you tell at least Remus that I don’t blame him?” he mumbled without looking up. “It was Voldemort, not him. It’s not like I don’t know that.”

“You might consider writing him a letter,” Dumbledore gently prodded. “I’m sure it would mean more coming directly from you.”

He jerked a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he agreed, then he looked Dumbledore in the eyes and asked what he really wanted to know. “What about the prophecy, sir? The one that said Snape was going to guide me to defeat Voldemort? Doesn’t that mean he has to teach me? I know you said he’s working on something important, but surely _that’s_ important too.”

The headmaster looked sad as he said, “Perhaps the prophecy has already been fulfilled. He did, after all, offer you his guidance this summer.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe that. You think there’s more to it.”

“I did,” Dumbledore agreed, “but we all of us must reconsider our beliefs from time to time.”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t think what to say. It wasn’t like Dumbledore to give up. Oh, he would let others come to their own decisions, even if it wasn’t what he thought best, but he would be there the entire time, dropping hints and “encouraging” them to choose differently. That’s what he should be doing with Snape. He should be talking him into teaching Harry! Convincing him to take the prophecy seriously! Instead, he was letting him off the hook and making his excuses to Harry.

“Can I go now, sir?” he asked woodenly, ready to fly and forget all about school and adults in general.

Dumbledore breathed a deep sigh. “I am truly sorry, Harry.”

“I know, sir,” Harry nodded politely and asked again, “Can I go?”

“Of course,” the man murmured, and Harry left without a backward glance.

* * *

Flying was a good distraction, but it didn’t last, and neither did the diversion of good friends gathered around the common room fire. It had been nice to feel the wind rush past his ears, then to laugh and joke with his friends, but come nighttime, he was again alone in the darkness with his thoughts. He didn’t try to talk himself out of a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion like he had the previous two nights. He knew he needed to do without the potion occasionally, that Snape had said it could be addictive, but taking it all week had only served to increase his dread of the inevitable nightmares when he had to stop.

He would try to go without tomorrow, he promised himself as he drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Only, it didn’t work like it was supposed to. He didn’t scream when he woke up partway through the night, his chest heaving and the memory of Cruciatus trembling through his body. He was proud of himself for that. No screaming was good. But he shouldn’t have had a nightmare at all. He stared blankly at the faint outline of the curtains, nervous to close his eyes again. Usually the potion lasted through the night. Is this what happened if someone took too much of it - it stopped working? That was worrisome, he decided. He didn’t even know if he could fall asleep on his own. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt a cold sweat break out at the memory of going under Voldemort’s potion. He’d already had to close his eyes once with the knowledge that he might never wake up. He didn’t want to do it again.

He forced himself to close his eyes and to keep them closed. He was safe, he repeated to himself. Safe at Hogwarts. And he was strong. He was a Gryffindor. He was sixteen, almost a man, and a Gryffindor. He wouldn’t let a little thing like fear and nightmares defeat him.

Ten minutes later, he downed another dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion and burrowed under the covers.

Tomorrow. He’d go without tomorrow.


	51. Will You Catch Me if I Fall?

“That’s all?” he asked with forced calm, trying not to show his rising panic.

“Three doses will be plenty to see you through the week, young man,” answered Madame Pomfrey with a stern look. She closed and locked the potions cabinet. “It sufficed for last week.”

“Yeah, but…um,” he searched his mind for an excuse, any excuse to justify needing more Dreamless Sleep Potion, but he couldn’t think of any that the mediwitch would accept. He’d had several doses from Snape, after all, but he wasn’t about to admit to that. And that was long gone anyway. Now that he was out of potion _and_ had to take two doses per night for it to even be effective, he was looking at a measly one and a half nights of nightmare-free sleep in his hands. And it was only Monday!

She put her hands on her hips, not about to give in. “If three doses aren’t enough, then you come back here and we’ll look into a Mind Healer.”

“Mind Healer?” Harry scrunched up his nose, appalled. “I don’t need a _Mind Healer_.”

“If you are experiencing frequent nightmares and lack of sleep due to your recent trauma, then I beg to differ.” She gave him a look that brooked no argument, then softened and added, “There is no shame in mind healing, Mr. Potter. Even the strongest of us need help from time to time.”

She would not budge, and he was not keen to give her more reason to think that he needed a…a…well, _that_ , and so he eventually backed out of the Hospital Wing with a subdued “yes, ma’am.”

He heaved a great sigh as he walked toward his dorm with three tiny bottles of purple potion in his pocket.

It was almost enough to make him want to cry in frustration. It _was_ enough to make his heart beat faster at the worry of what he would do tomorrow, with only enough for half the night, and then the following night, with absolutely nothing. He stopped in his tracks and shook his head, grateful that the hallway was empty so that no one could see his erratic behavior. No, he didn’t want to go without the potion. Not quite yet. He turned around and headed for the library instead. Perhaps if he couldn’t get it from Madame Pomfrey, he could figure out how to brew it!

It didn’t take him very long to find a few books to look through. _Potions and Dreams_ was a bust. Despite its promising title, it was all about how to _have_ dreams, not get rid of them. It had it all - potions for romantic dreams or dreams of success, even for merging dreams so that two people could share the experience (which was interesting enough that Harry read the entire page even though it wasn’t what he was looking for) - but not a word about potions to hold back dreams.

He tossed it aside and reached for the next one. _Combating Stress with Potions and Healing_ seemed like something that might deal with nightmares, but it didn’t even touch on it. He did, however, jot down an interesting looking recipe to help with clearing one’s thoughts during waking hours. He found nothing in the next several books he flipped through, until his eyes lit up when he found what he was looking for in an unassuming little brown book called _Uncommon Potions for Common Ailments of the Mind_.

He grimaced when he saw that it would take two days to brew, but that wasn’t so bad, he supposed, if he started right away. Most of the ingredients were simple and could probably be borrowed from Hermione…but there were two problematic ingredients: adder’s fork and lavender. He had looked over Hermione’s list of required sixth year potions ingredients when he’d hoped to be let into the class, and neither one was on her list. He could probably owl order lavender from a shop somewhere, but he knew from one of their potions assignments last year that adder’s fork was notoriously difficult to procure. The only hope he’d have to obtain it would be to ask Snape directly, and in that case, he may as well simply ask for the potion itself, because Snape wasn’t an idiot. He would know _exactly_ what he wanted it for.

He sighed in defeat as he closed the book. It was little consolation to have found the recipe if he had no way of _brewing_ it.

That evening, he had a better idea.

Okay, so it wasn’t that much better. And it was definitely against the rules. But it worked, and that’s what mattered. Ron was easy to convince, as he had been sharing a dorm with Harry for enough years to know about his occasional nightmares. He also wasn’t the type to ask too many questions.

“Yeah, sure, mate,” he shrugged as he got into bed. “Pomfrey knows all about what happened to me this summer. Shouldn’t be difficult to convince her I need some. Dunno why she’s being stingy with you.”

Harry didn’t feel the need to explain her reasoning, especially the part where she’d mentioned a Mind Healer, and at breakfast the next morning, Ron discreetly handed him three more vials of the purple potion. Harry put them in his pocket gratefully.

“Did you hear what happened in my Potions class yesterday?” Ginny said excitedly as she dropped into the seat next to Hermione, across the table from Ron and Harry.

Harry’s ears immediately perked up, but it was Hermione who answered with a moaned, “ _Please_ don’t tell me Professor Snape took points from the entire class again.”

“No,” Ginny shook her head. “The only points he took were from Gregory, but he was late, so that’s all right. I think the headmaster must have talked to Professor Snape after seeing seeing how low the house points counters were on Friday.”

“He took points from _everyone_?” Ron asked, looking horrified for an instant, then he added hopefully, “Please tell me that included the Slytherins.” He grinned when she nodded.

“He took points from his Slytherins?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows. Everybody knew how competitive Snape was about house points. He must have been in quite the mood to risk his house’s standing.

“Yes, well, enough about points,” said Ginny impatiently. “Snape botched a potion! He was demonstrating how to add foxglove, and his hand slipped. Added at least twice as much as he meant to, and it started to smoke and he thundered - absolutely _thundered_ \- for the entire class to get out! I’ve never seen a group of students run so fast.”

“Snape took points from Slytherin _and_ botched a potion?” Ron asked as if his birthday had come early.

“But he’s always so precise,” said Hermione with a frown.

“Is he okay?” Harry quickly scanned the head table but Snape wasn’t there. Which wasn’t surprising, as he hadn’t been there when Harry looked for him five minutes ago.

“Is _Snape_ okay?” Ron looked at him as if he were mad, and Harry flushed. He really did want to know if Snape was all right. He’d borne the brunt of Snape’s ire enough times to have had it drilled into him that Potions accidents could cause serious injuries. And despite the fact that Snape was ignoring him lately, he didn’t want to see harm come to the professor. He looked at Ginny expectantly so he wouldn’t have to explain himself to Ron.

Ginny shrugged. “Dunno. Haven’t seen him since.”

“I’m sure he’s all right, Harry,” Hermione said with an understanding glance. “He’s a Potions master. He knows how to deal with lab accidents.”

Ron looked between them with a confused frown. “Am I missing something? Why are we so concerned about _Snape_ all of a sudden?”

“We’re not,” Harry denied automatically. “I just…um, spent a lot of time with him, you know? And I, well…” he trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say, and shrugged lamely.

Ron gave an exaggerated shudder. “Don’t remind me. The best part of sleeping away the summer was not having to see Snape every day at Grimmauld Place. Hey, maybe if we’re lucky he’ll have gone to St Mungo’s and we won’t have to see him around anymore!”

Harry tried hard not to frown, because the thought of Snape injuring himself in some way made his gut twist uncomfortably.

* * *

“That was some Shield Charm, Potter!” Brooks said enthusiastically as they trailed behind the rest of the class heading indoors after their dueling lesson.

“Thanks, professor.” Harry grinned as he waved for Hermione and Ron to go on ahead.

“You know,” Brooks leaned forward conspiratorially, “I heard a rumor that you can produce a fully corporeal Patronus.”

“Er, yeah, I can,” Harry answered reluctantly, because he had a feeling he knew what the next question was going to be.

“Would you be willing to demonstrate that for the class?” The professor’s face was all anticipation, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to say no, even though he wanted to. He didn’t want to come off as a teacher’s pet, or worse, like he was lording his grasp of Defense over the rest of the class.

He sighed as they walked through the doors to the castle but gave his teacher a smile and a nod.

Professor Brooks beamed but then faltered a step as a shadow fell over them. Harry’s eyes snapped up and his heart skipped a beat as he met a pair of guarded black eyes. Professor Snape stood still as a statue and surveyed them in the Entrance Hall as Brooks audibly gulped and said with false cheer, “Professor Snape! How are you doing on this fine day?”

Snape ignored him, and Harry felt bad for the younger professor. No wonder he was intimidated, with the Potions master looking down his nose at him, his eyes glittering with repressed annoyance. But then Snape looked at Harry, and for once, he wasn’t ignoring him! He gave the professor a tentative smile and was disappointed when he merely snapped his eyes back to Brooks.

“Do you think it wise to duel so close to the lake?” Snape asked snidely.

Brooks’s face dropped. “Oh. Well, yes. Er, I…I mean, I…” he faltered.

“I see,” said Snape smoothly, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose it did not occur to you how easily a student could fall in while dodging a wayward curse. Not to mention the disastrous outcome, should a student fall in after being _incapacitated_ by a curse.”

“No…I mean, yes, I suppose that’s true, but I didn’t-”

“Didn’t think?” Snape sneered. “Yes, I seem to recall that you preferred that method in Potions as well.”

Brooks flushed. “Yes…well, I…that is, Mr. Potter and need to be going. Thank you, professor,” he muttered quickly and headed for the stairs, tugging Harry along behind him. Harry watched Snape over his shoulder as the man followed them with his narrowed eyes for a moment, then continued on his way.

By the time he mustered up the courage to say hello to the professor, he and his billowing robes had disappeared down the hallway.

* * *

By Thursday, Harry was weighing the pros and cons of turning to a life of crime.

He bit the inside of his cheek as he tuned out Professor Binns’s monotonous lecture on the Troll Uprising of 1582. For the first time, he thought that maybe he was developing a real problem, as he was considering _stealing_. Not that he’d never stolen before, but it was always either for survival - like food from the Dursleys - or for something important, something greater than himself. He didn’t know if that made it right, but it certainly made it defensible in his own mind. He had felt justified in stealing boomslang skin when it served the purpose of discovering the identity of the heir of Slytherin, but when he thought about stealing adder’s fork from Snape’s potions stores, he felt a pit in his stomach. Even if the man wasn’t his teacher anymore, and even if he seemed intent on ignoring what had happened over the summer, they had built a measure of trust between them. He didn’t want to break that trust again, even if the alternative was to relive nightly his torture at the hands of Voldemort.

Stealing from Snape was out, he firmly decided.

The Hospital Wing, then? There were probably some heavy wards on Pomfrey’s stores of supplies and medications, but if he could figure out how to get around them and get his hands on some more potion…

He thought about the dilemma all through History of Magic, and he tried to pretend he wasn’t thinking about it during lunch, but he knew he wasn’t very good at hiding that he was worrying about _something_ , after Hermione shot him a few worried looks. Fortunately, Ron kept up a steady stream of chatter about the start of Quidditch practices, so he was spared from having to say much of anything. But then he thought about it all through Transfiguration class, except for when he got so distracted that he transfigured his shoe into a cactus and had to go to the Hospital Wing to get his foot de-spined. Which of course didn’t help, because Madame Pomfrey’s potions stores were _right there_ , and he tried so hard not to look in that direction that he knew for certain she must know what was on his mind. And to make his day worse, his repaired shoe poked at his big toe a bit now when he walked.

He was still thinking about it in the Great Hall at dinnertime, and that’s when he decided he couldn’t do it. He was desperate, but his desperation was what convinced him. If he was this desperate to get his hands on more potion now, what would he do next week? Or the next? Keep on stealing? It would never end. He would get caught, and he would be expelled for sure. He winced at the thought. He couldn’t get expelled. He had nowhere to go but back to the Dursleys, and they wouldn’t show him any mercy. If he was going to have awful, horrible nights for the foreseeable future, he’d rather be with his friends.

Decision made, he slumped his shoulders in joint relief and worry. He knew he’d come to the right decision, but still… He blinked quickly and speared a bite of vegetables, not wanting any of his friends to see how close he was to tears of frustration. He took a few deep breaths to ground himself, and then he resigned himself to a combination of sleepless nights and Silencing Charms.

* * *

_Dear Remus,_

_You’re an idiot._

That probably wasn’t the best way to start, he decided and balled up the parchment, dropping it onto the floor next to his bed.

_Dear Remus,_

_I miss you. I was thinking maybe you could come for a visit, and-_

No. He sounded pathetic. Not to mention, he wasn’t even certain that he _missed_ Remus exactly. It was more that he wanted to talk to him to clear the air, to make sure they were okay, before they went a long time without seeing each other again. He scrunched the parchment into another ball and tossed it to the side.

_Dear Remus,_

_It wasn’t your fault. I know you’d never try to hurt me or anything. How are you? Please write back._

_Harry_

Short and simple. Maybe not the nice, long, flowery kind of letter Dumbledore had in mind, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. He left it at that and set it aside to take to the Owlery tomorrow.

Harry sat back on his bed and tapped his fingers in a random rhythm on his leg. He fought back another yawn. Between completing his Herbology homework, poring over a book on Quidditch, polishing his broom, and writing the letter, he’d managed to take up half the night. His eyes were barely staying open, but he was testing the theory that if he waited to go to sleep until he was completely exhausted, he had a better chance of falling asleep quickly, and his mind would also have less time to turn to nightmares.

He did fall asleep quickly, but that was the only part of his plan that worked. He woke less than two hours later, soaked in a cold sweat and taking in deep, shuddering breaths. He quickly skimmed his hands over his legs and arms to make certain they were still attached to his body, then pressed his palms into his eyes. He’d rarely had a dream so _vivid._ Voldemort was there, and Bellatrix and Nott, and Snape was there too, only they were killing him, and Harry ran in the path of the curses to make them stop, and they’d killed him too. There he was, lifeless on top of dead bodies strewn about Hogsmeade, and for a moment he’d been glad that at least he’d finally died, so he wouldn’t have to worry about dying anymore. It was so so so real, and it was all he could do to stop himself from trying to find Snape’s quarters to assure himself that the professor was still alive too.

He burrowed his head into his pillow and tried to take deep, even breaths. He had to see Snape. No, he had to _talk_ to Snape, he corrected. He knew why the professor had pulled away, but he didn’t know why he was ignoring him or why he was in a foul mood or why Harry missed him so much, but he had to talk to him. He knew he was alive, but he hadn’t seen him in a few days, and he needed to reassure himself that he was all right. And still not angry at Harry, because that seemed important to find out too.

If he could only lay his eyes on Snape, and if the man would only look at him, not past him, then surely everything would be okay the next time he closed his eyes.

* * *

He flinched as the knock echoed in the empty corridor. He had waited until the last of the students had trickled out the hallway outside the Potions classroom before emerging from a nearby hallway, wanting to avoid the curiosity and gossip that would arise from Harry Potter being seen loitering outside Professor Snape’s office. Fortunately, the students seemed eager to get away from the Potions classroom as quickly as possible.

He was fairly certain Snape would be in his office right now. Without conscious thought, Harry had taken to piecing together the professor’s schedule in his mind. Today was Friday. On Fridays, he had third year Potions before lunch and fifth year Potions after lunch. He’d taken to skipping the midday meal in the Great Hall, so he would almost definitely be in his office right now, if not still in his classroom.

He only had to wait a few seconds before the door was jerked open and a glowering Snape was standing in front of him. By the way the man’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly and his glower gave way to a confused frown, Harry knew he had been the last person Snape expected to see on the other side of the door.

They stood in silence for several awkward seconds before Harry summoned a bit more courage and said, “Can I, um, come in?”

Snape hesitated, which only increased Harry’s nervousness, but then he turned back toward his desk, door open in a clear invitation to follow. Harry did, closing the door behind him.

Snape half turned to him and cleared his throat. “Did you need something, Mr. Potter?” he said formally. The kind of formality that told Harry he was uncomfortable with Harry being here. Which was really no surprise, considering that he’d taken to ignoring him every single day, and now here he was in the middle of the man’s office.

Harry shifted awkwardly from one foot to another before asking, “How…how are you, sir?”

Snape raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. “You came to my office in order to ask me how I am.”

He nodded. “You haven’t been at meals in a few days. And rumor has it you’re in a foul mood all the time lately.”

“Is your tactless questioning supposed to convince me to _not_ be in a foul mood?” Snape curled his lip.

“I guess not,” he admitted and fidgeted. “I just- I mean, I haven’t seen you much lately and I was worried.”

“Worried,” Snape turned toward him completely and ran the word over his tongue as if parceling out its meaning.

“Yeah. Worried,” repeated Harry. He crossed his arms defensively.

Snape looked askance at him as if were speaking an entirely foreign language.

Harry threw up his hands. “Oh, come on! You may want to pretend this summer never happened, but you can’t force _me_ to! I can’t go back to hating you just because we’re at school and you want to be all avoidy.”

“‘Avoidy’ is not a word, Potter.”

“You know exactly what I mean, so it counts as a word.” Harry lifted his chin stubbornly, and he forced himself not to smile when Snape’s lips twitched. He was getting there, slowly breaking through the man’s defenses. He could tell. He only had to keep going, press his advantage, and then maybe he could convince Snape to start talking to him again. “So how are you?” he repeated firmly.

Snape studied him a moment longer, as if determining that Harry was serious, then said shortly, “well.”

“Well,” Harry repeated skeptically. “You’re doing _well_.” _Liar_ , he wanted to say. The professor obviously was _not_ doing well, if the tension around his eyes and shoulders was any indication.

“Yes. Did you need anything further, Mr. Potter?” he said in clear dismissal, attention turning to a stack of student essays on his desk.

“You being so stressed out doesn’t have to do with starting classes late, does it?” Harry voiced his worry out loud. “Because if it does, I’m sorry. I know it was my fault.”

Snape snapped his gaze to him and stared before saying incredulously, “You are _sorry_ that I was inconvenienced by your being captured and held against your will by the Dark Lord?”

“Well…” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I know I didn’t cause it or anything, but still, if you hadn’t had to work on rescuing me, you wouldn’t have had to miss classes. Not to mention…you know, everything else that happened.” He snapped his jaw shut, trying to tamp down the images of Snape being tortured by Death Eater curses, of Snape dying-

No. He shook his head slightly to clear it, not wanting to see those images in his mind’s eye. Not again.

Snape still stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time since summer. Which was close to the truth. “Potter. I-” He cleared his throat and looked away. “You bear no responsibility for recent events. Put such thoughts out of your mind.”

“I didn’t say I did! I just-”

“You _apologized_ ,” he snapped. “Do not apologize for what is not your doing.”

Harry frowned. “But it had to do with me. My fault or no, if you hadn’t been trying to help me, none of that would have happened. I just wanted you to know that I know that and I feel bad about it.”

Snape rubbed a tired hand over his face and muttered, “To think that I used to think you arrogant and conceited.”

Harry bit his lip against another apology, even though he wasn’t sure what for.

Snape sighed as he tiredly walked around to the other side of his desk and sank into his chair. “Why are you here, Potter?”

Harry blinked. “I just told you. To find out how you are. And…and also to see if I can help.”

Snape looked confused, and Harry wondered if the professor had ever had a student express concern for him before. He didn’t have family or many friends, so maybe he wasn’t used to it. If so, Harry could relate. It had taken him a while after coming to Hogwarts to get used to being around people who actually cared enough about him to be concerned when he was sick or to want to help him when he was stressed. People like Ron and Hermione took it for granted, but to Harry, it had been like soaking up water after living his entire life parched in a dry desert. He’d managed to get used to it much of the time by now; maybe he could help Snape get used to it too. If Snape let him, that is.

Seeing as the professor had yet to raise his voice to Harry despite having terrorized most of the school over the past week, he took a chance that he wouldn’t kick him out quite yet and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk.

Snape watched him bemusedly, and Harry saw clearly now the lines around the man’s eyes and mouth. Snape was holding himself stiffly, and at first he thought it was his discomfort at Harry being here. But no. He knew those lines, the way his eyes pinched just so. They had been through hell together, and Harry knew what that face meant. And then he noticed the slight tremor in the man’s left hand where it rested on the desk, and he knew that something was wrong.

“You’re in pain,” he said softly, surprised, and Snape’s gaze faltered. His eyes widened and a glimmer of something broke through his mask, there and gone again almost before Harry could see it. Snape’s hand barely ghosted the sleeve of his robe.

“Is it a headache?”

“No.” Snape drew his thoughts and feelings behind an expressionless mask, and Harry knew to tread lightly, not press too hard. But he really wanted to know just how much pain the man was in that it would cause him to spiral into such a horrible state that even his Slytherins feared him.

“Was it the Potions accident Monday? Were you injured?”

“No,” Snape shook his head minutely. “The mishap produced a rather foul-smelling odor throughout my classroom, but it was not injurious.”

“I can help,” he insisted. “Whatever’s going on, I can help. With this, and with…with anything else. Professor Dumbledore says you’re working on a project,” he fished.

Snape drew a hand up and rubbed his temples. “You seem to know an inordinate amount about my goings on, Mr. Potter.”

“He wouldn’t tell me what it is you’re doing,” Harry rushed to explain. “But it’s obvious that something’s got you stressed out. If it’s a potion, I could chop some ingredients or help with the prep work or cleaning or…whatever,” he finished lamely.

“If this is about getting into Potions, I have already made up my mind,” he clipped. “I will not change it. I will not have less than fully prepared students handling extremely sensitive concoctions, so you can desist any efforts to-.”

“I’m not trying to get you to change your mind,” Harry snapped, getting frustrated. He took a breath and said more calmly, “Not anymore, anyway. I know when I’ve lost. This doesn’t have anything to do with that. I just want to help!”

Snape narrowed his eyes, again in confusion. “Why?”

Harry splayed out his hands. “Because you’re in pain, and you’re stressed out, and because whatever is going on, you don’t have to go it alone.”

Snape blinked. He studied Harry as if looking for an angle, and Harry let him. He wouldn’t find any, even if he performed Legilimency, because Harry didn’t _have_ an angle. As much as he did want to be taught by Snape, he wanted to help him even more. He wanted to ease whatever burden he was under. Snape must have gathered as much, because he looked away and visibly swallowed. “It is a personal…project,” he finally answered and stiffly added, “But I thank you for your offer.”

Harry smiled a genuine smile. Snape had not only acknowledged his existence, he had thanked him! Not to mention, he wasn’t taking points or yelling at him, or even throwing him bodily from his office. Even if the professor refused to confide in him, this was going far, far better than he’d imagined it would.

He leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable. “I’ve been sticking to the study schedule you gave me,” he offered, eager to keep the conversation going by whatever means necessary, even though he was certain Snape wasn’t concerned in the least about Harry’s academic progress. “Mostly, anyway. I’m almost caught up. I have no life because I’m studying all the time, but…yeah. Almost caught up.” Snape watched him with a new wrinkle in his forehead, but he didn’t speak, so Harry kept talking to fill up the silence. “First real Quidditch practice is this weekend. We filled up the available positions, so now we need to see how we all play together.” He shrugged. “I think it’ll be a good team this year. Slytherin might have to watch out,” he tried to tease, but Snape’s silence was making him nervous, and he rushed on, “Ron’s doing well. Thank you for getting the curses to Dumbledore, by the way,” he said sincerely, “so they could figure out how to wake him up. He doesn’t remember any of it, really, so he’s doing fine other than still grousing about missing so much of summer. I think he’ll be glad to start up Quidditch again too.”

“Potter,” Snape cut in, his face awash in complete confusion, “I…not to stand in the way of your fascinating account of the first weeks of school, but why are you here?”

“I already said-”

“Why are you _really_ here?”

Harry bit his lip. “You said I could come to you if I needed to.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I am merely failing to see the need.”

Harry looked away, not wanting Snape to see how the words hurt. It was obvious that the professor wasn’t going to shout at him or treat him as poorly as in years past, but it was equally as obvious that he still didn’t want to be bothered to have Harry hanging about him, disturbing his carefully ordered life. Especially when he was visibly exhausted and grumpy and in some kind of physical pain. Still…he supposed he had nothing to lose in being honest.

“I missed you,” he said quietly, not meeting Snape’s eyes. “I got used to this,” he motioned between the two of them, “over the summer. I like it, like talking to you. I miss it.” He lifted his chin and looked stubbornly at the professor, trying and probably failing to keep the longing out of his eyes. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Snape opened his mouth as if to respond, but no words came out. He shut his mouth and looked away, bringing up two fingers to stroke his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. The words had obviously surprised him, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was good surprised or bad surprised.

“I know you probably want peace and quiet after teaching all day,” Harry said nervously, “but maybe…maybe I could come here and we could just, you know, talk? Sometimes? Not all the time. You can tell me when not to. Or I can help you in your lab, if you have work to do. I promise to respect your privacy. I won’t bug you about things you don’t want to talk about, but…well, I mean, maybe you could even, you know, tell me some more about my mum some time? Only if you want to,” he tacked on quickly. “But not if you don’t. Want to, that is.” He stopped himself from groaning aloud. He was making a royal mess of this. He crossed his arms across his chest to stop his nervous fidgeting.

Snape was silent for a full minute and Harry had to bite his lip not to fill up the silence with his nervous rambling. Finally, Snape rubbed his temples, shook his head, and without looking at him, said, “Potter…now is not-”

“-the best time,” Harry finished for him glumly. He allowed himself a moment to curl in on himself, then squared his shoulders and got to his feet without looking at Snape. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he mumbled and headed for the door.

“Potter,” Snape’s voice stopped him with his hand on the doorknob. He heard the man clear his throat and pause several seconds before saying, “Gryffindor might be the one to watch out. I have it on good authority that Slytherin’s team will be unrivaled this year.”

He looked back at the professor and saw something like regret in his eyes, and he gave him a sad smile in response. “I guess we’ll see at the first game, then.”

He closed the door behind him, walked out of the dungeons and out of the castle, and plopped himself down in the shade under a tree near the lake. He closed his eyes, felt the faint whisper of calming magic climbing up through the grass and into his hands, and stayed there through the rest of lunch and Defense class. There was no way he could manage to produce a decent Patronus today anyway.

* * *

“I’m only saying that you’ve barely caught up!” Hermione lectured as they headed to the Great Hall for dinner that evening. “Skipping class is going to make you fall behind again!”

“Hermione, lay off him,” argued Ron. “If he’s sick, he’s sick.”

“He said he’s not sick,” she countered, then took a closer look at Harry. He tried to walk faster to avoid the scrutiny. “ _Are_ you sick?” she said, sounding worried now. “You look pale. And you were yawning all through Herbology this morning. Are you sleeping okay?”

Harry rolled his eyes, only because he had walked far enough ahead that she couldn’t see him. “I’m fine, Hermione. Just tired. I’ve been studying a lot, you know. Today I just…lost track of time,” he lied. “I won’t skip again, promise.” That was probably also a lie, but it would help get her off his case.

She drew even with him again and pursed her lips as she studied him. He could tell she didn’t believe him about being fine, but she dropped it.

“How was Potions?” he asked to change the subject. And also because he hoped he hadn’t worsened Snape’s mood by showing up in his office like a clingy little kid. Merlin, he must have sounded pathetic. He cringed.

“Not bad,” said Hermione with a shrug. “He only yelled once, and Nott probably deserved it for trying to add nettle to a Dissolution Potion.” She tsked as if everyone would know not to do that. “Mainly, he told us to work without talking, and we did, and then he didn’t say a word to us either until it was time to hand in our potions.”

“I wish all our classes with Snape had been like that,” Ron said wistfully as they reached the table and took their seats. “Imagine how much nicer Potions would have been if he’d never ever talked to us.”

“Yeah,” said Harry distractedly. He scanned the head table as had become his habit, but Snape wasn’t there. He took a deep breath, pasted a smile on his face, and said, “So tell me what I missed in Defense. Practical or theory?”

Hermione kindly proceeded to catch him up, and even Ron chimed in with commentary on Brooks’s latest failure to rein in Malfoy and his cronies.

* * *

By the next day, his resolve to do without the potion had all but crumbled. Yesterday he had felt tired and a bit twitchy, but today he felt _awful_. Only two nights without potion, and he was tired from lack of sleep, jumpy from memories of the nightmares he had when he _did_ sleep, and shaky from…well, he didn’t know for certain why he was as shaky as he was, but he thought that maybe if he could get his hands on more potion, he might feel better.

Maybe there was another way to get adder’s fork…

“Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the Hospital Wing?” Hermione felt his forehead, and he ducked his head. “You look even more pale and you’ve hardly touched your food.”

“I’m fine, Hermione, I swear.” He picked up his fork and poked at a piece of chicken to reassure her. “Just a bit tired. Might go lie down after lunch.”

“Don’t forget Quidditch practice,” Ron chimed in, reaching for another helping of roasted chicken.

He didn’t forget, but he kind of wished he had when he mounted his broom that afternoon and felt his stomach give a lurch. He was immensely grateful he hadn’t eaten much that day. To his relief, he felt better once he was in the air, the fresh breeze on his face. It soothed his clammy skin, and he took a deep, calming breath.

Maybe he could convince a few more of his classmates to obtain potion from Madame Pomfrey…

No. He shook his head to clear it from his unhelpful thoughts, which turned out to be the wrong thing to do, as he lost momentary control of his broom and had to correct himself sharply.

“Oy! Potter! All right there?” shouted one of his teammates and he waved, embarrassed, and focused on the practice. He began to loop around the field, dodging the other players and searching the skies for the practice snitch.

By the time he spotted it, he felt almost at ease, finally able to focus on the broom in his hands, the wind through his ears, and the tiny fluttering golden ball in his line of sight. He grinned and sped up his broom, dodging and flitting around the field in pursuit, barely registering when he had to fly sharply around Ron in order to avoid a collision. _This_ was what he’d been missing since last year, before he’d been banned from Quidditch. _This_ was one thing that never failed to calm him, center him, make everything better.

He laughed as he closed his hands around the snitch and held it above his head. He looked down. His heart stuttered. Hogwarts. Hogsmeade, Bodies. Red. Blood. Death on the field, death at Hogwarts. Bodies everywhere. They were all-

He blinked. They were gone. The bodies were gone. He gasped in a breath. No, they’d never been there. He knew they weren’t there. He let go of the snitch and braced himself on his broom, breathing in great gasps of air. Was he hallucinating now? Was Madame Pomfrey right? Was he going mental? Or was it a side effect of going cold turkey off a sleep potion?

He forced his eyes closed and saw red. Blood. He took a gulping breath and forced them to stay open. The team was still practicing, happy yells and hollers echoing across the pitch. Nothing was out of place. No one was hurt or dead. The sun was beating down its pleasant warmth, and the breeze did its best to soothe his worries away.

It didn’t work. His heart was beating faster, and the panic was clawing its way down his throat, and even he knew that midair was not the right place to have a panic attack. He tried to take slow, even breaths, but his vision was clouding, filling up with red, and blood, bodies in his mind, even if they weren’t real… He sucked in a choking gasp of air, feeling the tears behind his eyes. He desperately grasped for something, he didn’t know what, and that’s when he saw them.

The sparks.

He took in a shuddering breath, distracted from his panic by the beautiful, golden sparks of magic. They danced around him, hailing from every direction. They radiated from the sun, from the ground, from the very air around him, and he lifted one hand from his broom, watching as the sparks darted around his fingers, congregating on his shaking hand so that it seemed to glow with pure magic, and infusing him with strength so that little by little, his shaking subsided.

He stared in wonder as he took another halting breath. It was amazing. So beautiful and wonderful.

And distracting, or he would have ducked when he heard “Harry! Look out!” instead of taking a bludger to the side. He gasped in pain, but it would be nothing more than a bruise, he knew as he righted himself. What distressed him was that the sparks were dissipating. He swallowed hard and tried to call them back. He didn’t know how they had managed to help him, but they had. They made him feel stronger, more in control, and he was desperate to feel that again. He instinctively reached out with his magic and grinned when it started to work. The sparks were coming back! They were congregating on his hand again, and his arm, and he felt their power like an electrical charge running through his entire body, and-

His smile faltered. “That’s enough,” he said aloud, but the sparks kept coming. “Stop!” He felt awash with energy. It buzzed all around him, and it suddenly was too much, too overwhelming. Filling up his every pore and readying itself to burst from his body in a surge of raw power. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop-

“Stop! Nonononono!” He cried, scrunching his eyes in concentration. He balled his hands into fists to stop the power from bursting out of them. The sensations were too much. His skin prickled, his ears buzzed, and the light was bright even through his closed eyelids. He didn’t realize he was falling until he was caught by a pair of fumbling arms and lowered to the ground.

His name. He thought that maybe people were saying his name. He barely registered it over the roar of a thousand buzzing bees in his ears. He flinched away from prying hands, shook his head, too afraid of losing control to worry what he looked like. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth and was unable to get out anything but a moan.

The buzzing gave way to ringing, which gave way to shouts and voices, and he made out “Harry” and “what’s wrong” and “Madame Pomfrey,” and he thought he heard Ron’s voice say something about his scar, and he wanted to tell him it wasn’t his scar, not this time, but if he tried to speak, he might lose control of the power and hurt him-

“Nuuuuh!” he moaned through gritted teeth as a wave of something he could only describe as _electrical_ ran through his body and stuttered out of his hands. A screech next to him caused him to flinch, and he curled his body around his traitorous hands, hiding them from sight. The sparks didn’t like it. They wanted to be let loose, wanted out of him, and he didn’t know how to without hurting everybody here.

He couldn’t do this, couldn’t do this, couldn’t do-

Another surge ran through his body, but he held it in, didn’t let it escape. He thought he might be crying though, and he allowed himself a moment to feel embarrassed by the picture he must be making, but only a moment, because he was fighting back another surge. He’d only felt this powerful once, when Voldemort had Snape, and was killing him…

Snape! He latched onto that name and tried to get it out. He ground out, “Ssnppp,” but it didn’t seem to have worked, for the voices around him didn’t change their pitch. “Snape,” he managed, more clearly, but all he heard in response was a garbled din of “don’t worry, Harry…not here.”

He shook his head frantically and longed to grasp at the closest thing he could, but he didn’t dare uncurl his hands. “Get. Snape!” he bit out as emphatically as he could. “Nguuuh!” he moaned again, and certain he couldn’t hold the magic inside for much longer, he concentrated on the one person he knew could help him. He didn’t know how exactly, but he knew that he could help him.

“Snape. Snape. Snape,” over and over and over, until he was certain that even Ron couldn’t mistake who he needed.


	52. Like a Dad

He was a grenade. A Harry-shaped grenade. If he exploded, he would take the entire Quidditch team with him. A moment of hysterical dark humor broke through his panicked mind at the thought that Slytherin might soon be unrivaled after all.

Nobody was touching him. They had tried, but he had screamed, trying to get them far away from him without having the words to say it. He knew they weren’t far enough away. Were something to happen, they were too close to be spared, and he clenched his teeth as the thought sent a shock wave of unreleased power through his body.

People were too close. Too close, and he didn’t know if anybody had gone for Snape. They had to have gone. They had to have understood who he needed.

They had to have. Right..?

He had stopped saying the professor’s name. He figured if they didn’t understand after he’d said it a few dozen times, then they never would. He needed to focus his energies on holding in the magic.

The world was far away and yet in sharp focus. He hadn’t known anything could feel like this. He was entirely disconnected from the activity surrounding him, though he knew that it was there. He rolled himself up into a tighter ball, hiding his face in his knees and clenching his fists tightly. The rough fabric of his jeans was like sandpaper on his forehead.

His senses…

His senses were on _fire_. It was almost like being under Snape’s mind melding potion again, only _more_. He felt every blade of grass rubbing against his cheek, felt the slight shifts and vibrations of the ground beneath him as feet and broomsticks hit the field. He smelled everything all at once. The sweetness of grass and the earthy dirt near his nose combined with the scents of sweat and fabric to overwhelm his senses. His nostrils felt rubbed raw, soothed only by the faintest whiff of rain. It was so slight, just enough that though not a cloud was in the sky, he somehow knew that it would rain tomorrow.

The ground vibrated with the pounding rhythm of running feet, and there was a subtle shift in the air around him. Snape didn’t have to speak for Harry to know he was there. His scent was so familiar, but mixed with something that smelled distinctly medicinal, and he wanted to reach out, but he was afraid of uncurling, of exposing his magic-filled hands.

“Potter,” his teacher said, his voice echoing too loudly in Harry’s sensitive ear. A hand touched his shoulder and he gasped and instinctively flinched away. He was trembling. How had he not noticed before how badly he was shaking? The hand on his shoulder was unrelenting where it grasped him. It didn’t let him shy away. He gritted his teeth as another hand pried his knees away from his head and smoothed back his fringe, and he knew Snape was looking at his scar.

He tried to ignore how the small bits of contact chafed at his skin, and he unclenched his teeth enough to gasp, “M-m-my magic. Not-not _him_.” The hand on his shoulder tightened, and Harry was frightened and comforted by the unpleasant pressure all at once. He wanted to yell at Snape to get away before he exploded, but he needed Snape to stay and figure out how to help him out of this mess. “H-help,” he stuttered, though that was probably unnecessary. It was fairly obvious that he needed some help here.

Snape yelled something, and Harry flinched again, not registering the words for how loud they were. The professor must have told the Gryffindors to leave, as the sounds and smells of people gathered around grew fainter. All except one - Ron, he somehow knew - but he sensed his friend moving farther away as well after a barked order from Snape. Harry could only imagine the mutinous face Ron would be wearing as he was forced to leave, and he felt a sense of relief that his best friend was finally in less danger of being caught in a Harry-grenade explosion.

“Harry,” Snape’s voice was softer, and he softened it even more after Harry shuddered. “Can you understand me?”

Harry jerked a nod and hissed at the friction that caused between his cheek and the grass. He listened intently, trying to focus on Snape’s voice while containing the magic in his hands. It was harder than it should be.

“I am going to need you to do something for me,” Snape said in a calm voice, like Harry writhing on the ground about to explode was nothing to fuss over. Harry wanted to shout at him for it, except that the calm helped. It soothed his nerves, the idea that Snape thought this situation was manageable, and he took a deep, slow, even breath. “You need channel the magic in your body toward your mind. Use it to Occlude. Build your mental wall and strengthen it. Understand?”

Harry grunted and tried to do as he said, but no sooner had he reached inside his mind, than he felt his hands shudder with a near-release of the magic. He cried out and shook his head. “C-can’t.” It was too hard while he was trying to not explode, like trying to juggle while keeping balance on a tightrope.

“You can,” said Snape in the same calm voice. “I have seen into your mind. I have seen you Occlude, seen you build a barrier around your thoughts. You have a natural talent. Use it. Abandon conscious thought of Occluding and rely upon your instincts.”

Harry shook his head and whined low in his throat. He was only just getting better at Occlumency! He didn’t know how to do it without _thinking_ about it yet!

“Pull up the element of air,” said Snape. “Pull it up as you have in practice. Imagine the wind and follow where it leads. Siphon a small amount of magic to the task. _Use_ the magic, rather than merely containing it.”

Air. He’d no sooner pulled up the image of a mental breeze than he felt a slight calming shift of magic flowing through his mind. He took a deep breath and latched onto it, feeling like a kite in the wind for a split second before he let go and simply _was_. He mingled with the magic and with the wind until he was certain it wasn’t going to blow him over. It took ages, but when his soft mental breeze finally laid the first brick in his mental wall, he nearly cried. It was easier after that to let go of conscious thought and simply _feel_ his way through the exercise. Little by little, minute by agonizing minute, his mental wall was constructed and strengthened with memories and emotions that he hardly registered for the weightlessness of his mind. His hands were still burning with repressed magic, but as the minutes went by, he could begin to flex them, could feel a lightness in his fingers, like they were still full but no longer about to explode. That in turn made it easier to Occlude, for he could direct his conscious mind to the task now as well.

Snape must have sensed the change. His hand let up slightly where it still held onto his shoulder, and he softly directed, “Good. Keep working at it. Fortify your mental wall. Build deeper and higher.”

Harry did, and he thought he might cry in relief when his body stopped shaking from terror and explosive magic, and instead trembled from exhaustion. He was still filled with magic, but he was no longer in danger of exploding. He kept going, kept trying to siphon the magic into his mind. He felt confident enough to use a bit more now, channeling it into the fortification of his mental defenses, and then still more. It was working. He could _feel_ it working as he gave himself over to it, allowing the power to flow through his mind, instinctively Occluding more powerfully than he ever had before, and a surge of joy swept through him—

His mental vision went white. He felt himself suddenly slipping, slipping, slipping as if off a cliff, and he let himself, too curious and too startled to do anything else. The white turned to dark, and cold, and—

_Hatred ran through his veins. Pure, unadulterated hatred._

No. No, it wasn’t _his_ hatred. It was someone else’s. He could feel it as if it were his own, but he could separate himself from it.

 _The traitor was not yet dead, but he would be. He could not withstand his lord. He had marked himself_ his _. He belonged to Voldemort, not to Dumbledore, and not to the boy._

He knew where he was, knew he was in Voldemort’s mind, but it felt so…different. He felt an element of control, as if he could come or go as he pleased, that he had never before felt when assaulted by visions.

_Loathing. Anger. Frustration._

He felt a surge of revulsion and pity, which he knew as his own, for did Voldemort _ever_ think of anything beyond hate and revenge?

 _The traitor belonged to_ him _._

_In death, if not in life._

His blood ran cold as he saw a barrage of images in Voldemort’s dark mind, and he knew more of the wizard’s vindictiveness than he ever wanted to know. He grasped at something, anything, that would help him to withdraw from this cesspool of vengeance and horror. And to his pleasant surprise, it worked.

Maybe too well. With barely more than the wisp of a thought, he came to himself quite suddenly and winced as a frantic “Potter!” hit his ears in Snape’s voice. He groaned and drew his hands up to cover them.

“Open your eyes.” The man eased one of his hands away from his ear and shook him slightly from where he cradled him on the ground, and huh, when had that happened? His body was limp, which was rather pleasant in comparison to the tenseness that had preceded it, and he allowed himself a moment to breathe in the air that smelled like normal fresh air, and soak in the sounds that were at normal volume again. He was so exhausted, relaxed even, that he thought he might fall asleep right then and there if not for Snape’s annoying insistence to “Harry, open your eyes.”

He obeyed, because Snape was using his worried tone, which Harry sort of liked because it meant that he cared enough to worry over him. Not that he wanted to cause anyone worry. He squinted in the brightness of the midday sun, blinked, and looked up to meet Snape’s relieved black gaze.

The professor let out a sharp huff of breath. “Do you _enjoy_ shaving years off my life?”

Harry licked his dry lips and swiveled his head around. He took in the peacefulness of the day, the clear sky with no cloud in sight, and did a double take at a cluster of students a moderate distance away, near the castle. The Quidditch team hadn’t gone inside, then, and he appreciated that they too were worried about him, even while he felt embarrassed that they’d had to witness his breakdown.

A hand at his cheek drew his eyes back to Snape’s. The professor frowned. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “Yeah. I… Why didn’t you tell me about your Dark Mark?”

Snape flinched and drew back, though he didn’t let go of Harry. “How…?” he asked faintly.

“I um…” he cleared his raspy throat and paused, not sure how this was going to go over. “I just Legilimized…You-Know-Who.”

Snape’s mouth opened in a shocked “o” before he promptly shut it. He was silent for so long that Harry thought he’d made him speechless, but then he asked, “You’re certain?”

“Yeah. Positive.”

“And you…share no current connection?” Snape’s eyes flicked to his scar.

Harry shook his head and winced at the soreness in his neck. He reached up to rub at it, and Snape helped him to sit up, then supported him with an arm around his back when his body proved too floppy to stay upright. “Yeah. I mean, no. No connection. I got out. I don’t think he even knew I was there.” 

“Okay.” Snape nodded with his eyebrows lowered into his thinking-deep-thoughts face. “Okay. We’ll figure that out later.”

Harry wanted to ask him if that meant he’d still be around later, and that he would actually be willing to talk to him. But he didn’t want to hear the man say no again. Instead, he asked again about the Dark Mark. “That’s why you’re in pain, isn’t it? He’s more powerful now, so he can make it hurt all the time. I saw it in his mind. He’s trying to drive you mad, and he figures it will kill you slowly.”

Snape let out a long breath as if considering whether to lie before he visibly gave in and said, “yes.”

“That’s…that’s awful,” he understated and grimaced in sympathy.

Snape inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“What’s your personal project, then? Is it trying to figure out how to make him stop?”

“Of a sorts,” the man said cryptically. “Do you think you can stand?”

“Can I help? Now that I know what it is?”

“Can you stand?” Snape repeated firmly, and Harry knew he wasn’t going to get anything more out of him now. Which was okay, because despite his curiosity, he was getting sleepy. His eyes began to grow heavy, and it was becoming difficult to keep them open. Maybe a little nap…

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Snape with a gentle shake. “I am taking you straight to Madame Pomfrey to get checked out, and _then_ you can sleep to your heart’s content.”

“And then I can help?” he yawned.

“And then we will _talk_.”

“’Kay,” murmured Harry with a smile. Talking was good. His eyes drifted closed.

Snape harrumphed. “It is obvious you are in no condition to walk. I can carry you or conjure a stretcher. Your choice.”

“Um…” Harry wanted to argue that he’d try to walk, but even his Gryffindor stubbornness couldn’t combat the way his body was utterly, completely zapped of energy. With a heavy blink of his eyes toward his teammates in the distance, he answered, “stretcher,” and a minute later felt himself lifted onto a firm expanse of flat fabric, which then hovered in the air and began to move.

Ron apparently took that as his permission to come barreling back, as he was alongside the moving stretcher in an instant. He gave his friend a once-over, and Harry could tell by Ron’s face and the finger trails in his hair that he had been beyond worried. Harry smiled to reassure him. “I’m okay now. Thanks for getting Snape. Er…” He shot a glance up at the man in question, “Professor Snape.”

Snape didn’t say anything, merely continued guiding Harry’s stretcher with his wand toward the entrance to the castle. They passed by his other teammates and Harry gave them a small wave to assure them he was fine. They looked concerned and a few of them waved back, but Snape’s presence must have convinced them to save any questions or conversation for later.

Ron wrinkled his nose when he looked at Snape, but thankfully he didn’t say anything stupid. “I can help Harry to the tower, professor,” he said with thinly disguised distrust.

“That will be unnecessary, Mr. Weasley,” sniffed Snape. “Mr. Potter is on his way to the Hospital Wing.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay, well I can take him there.”

“Again, that will be unnecessary,” said Snape dismissively.

Ron’s ears were turning red, and Harry asked, “But he can come with us, right professor?” before his friend could say or do anything regrettable.

Snape wrinkled his own nose, though he was far more subtle than Ron had been about it, and said, “If he must.”

Harry tried to tell Ron with his tired eyes that it was all going to be okay, but Ron was too busy casting suspicious glances at the professor and sticking as close to Harry’s other side as he could. Which really wasn’t helpful. The feeling of being boxed in made Harry all the more eager to close his eyes again. He sighed. He really should have confided in Ron more about the events of this summer, because this was shaping up to be a very long, very awkward walk through the castle. Well, unless he fell asleep…

His stretcher jostled a bit, and he opened his eyes to glare at Snape, but the professor kept right on walking to the Hospital Wing.

Madame Pomfrey didn’t even have the courtesy to act surprised that he was back. “You can take him to the first bed, Professor Snape,” she said after looking him up and down and apparently deciding he wasn’t about to die. “What seems to be amiss?”

“Magical exhaustion,” said Snape as he practically lifted Harry onto the bed, “accompanied by shock and…” he looked critically over Harry and waved a hand over him. “A full diagnostic might be in order.”

Harry scrunched up his face. “I’m fine. Jus’ need a nap,” he said around a yawn. He was so tired, he wasn’t even much worried about nightmares. Surely he’d sleep in pleasant darkness until next week.

“Nonetheless,” Snape said simply with crossed arms.

Pomfrey shifted her attention to Ron. “Are you here as patient or spectator, Mr. Weasley?”

“Um.” Ron shuffled his feet. “Spectator?”

“Then you can wait outside,” instructed the mediwitch as she came closer to Harry and pulled out her wand.

Ron began to argue, “I want to stay-” at the same time Harry insisted, “I don’t mind-” but they were interrupted by Snape’s, “He can stay, Madame Pomfrey,” which stopped both their protests. Ron stared at Snape incredulously.

Pomfrey put her hands on her hips, though Harry thought she looked more amused than upset. “You are aware that this is my domain, professor?”

“Of course,” Snape nodded his head deferentially. “As _you_ are perfectly aware that the headmaster has given me complete authority to approve medical decisions for Mr. Potter. I do believe that encompasses not only treatment, but seemingly inconsequential details such as approved visitors.”

Harry stared incredulously at Snape. “When did Dumbledore do _that_?” he asked but was ignored. And why was Snape using it to argue for Ron to stay? He didn’t even _like_ Ron.

“Very well,” Pomfrey tutted as she gave in. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, Mr. Weasley, and retrieve a spare blanket for your friend? There, against the wall.”

Ron was sneaking long glances at Snape but hurried to obey.

Harry lay still, flat on his back on the bed, while she hovered over him and waved her wand in a figure eight over his body a couple times. She muttered a few spells that Harry didn’t recognize, though he figured them for diagnostic spells, and then she hummed and clucked a few times, which made him nervous.

“Have you been sleeping, dear?” she asked absently and tacked on, “And eating properly?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, not making eye contact with Snape.

She made a “hmm” sound, which he didn’t like, and shone a light from the end of her wand at his eyes, directing him to look every which way. “Depression is nothing to be ashamed of, dear. You _have_ been through a trying ordeal-”

“I’m not _depressed!_ ” Harry objected.

She gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm and soothed, “There is no shame in consulting a Mind Healer.”

“I don’t need a Mind Healer!” he snapped and tried to sit up, which was difficult with how his arms felt like tree trunks and his legs felt like noodles. Snape’s hand easily shoved him back onto his pillow, and Harry didn’t dare look at the man or he’d give away his embarrassment. He was rethinking inviting Ron to stay too, though his friend looked fairly distracted trying decide where to set down the blanket in his hands. He settled on laying it on a chair, then awkwardly shifted from one leg to another, sneaking wary glances at Professor Snape.

“What about my magic?” Harry redirected the conversation. “I didn’t, um, damage it or anything?”

Pomfrey gave him another reassuring pat on the arm. “Professor Snape was right about that, dear, just a bit of magical exhaustion. Some rest and it’ll be fine.”

Harry sank into the mattress in relief.

“It is your physical health that concerns me,” Pomfrey tsked. “You’d best stay here tonight so we can spread out some restorative potions.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

“I know you’ve been through an ordeal,” she said placating. “It’s been the better part of a week, so if you feel you need a dose of potion to sleep tonight, you let me know, alright?”

He hoped his eagerness wasn’t obvious as he nodded. He truly thought he might be able to manage without anything today, he was so exhausted, but if he could talk her into some doses for the rest of the week…

At the thought, he felt like he could breathe easier.

“Uh,” Ron spoke up, “I almost forgot, I’m out too. Don’t suppose I could have some more?” he asked with what was supposed to be a sneaky glance at Harry, and Harry nearly groaned. Could Ron be any more obvious? In front of Snape, who rarely missed a thing? He glanced at the professor out of the corner of his eye, and sure enough, while Madame Pomfrey agreed to the request, Snape was glancing suspiciously between the two boys.

Harry closed his eyes. His life was over. In about two seconds, Snape would put two and two together, realize he’d had Ron sneak potion for him, and in the best case scenario, give him detentions for the rest of the year. And then he’d never see another dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion again. Snape would see to it.

The only thing that made him feel better was that he was so tired, he didn’t have to dwell on it for more than the minute or two it would take for him to fall asleep.

Pomfrey nudged him. “Open up. Potion first, then you can sleep.”

He obediently drank down the potion, barely tasting whatever it was, and cracked his eyes as he felt his shoe being pulled off. He watched through heavy lidded eyes as Snape removed the other one and pulled a blanket over him. Their eyes met for a moment, and Snape gave his arm a reassuring tap, then motioned Pomfrey toward her office to talk.

“You’ll be back?” Harry murmured.

“Later,” Snape turned around to promise. “I have some matters to attend to, but I’ll be back later.”

“’Kay,” he said sleepily and heard the adults close the curtain around his bed and walk away.

He’d almost forgotten Ron was still there until he heard the sound of a chair being moved and his friend saying, “Harry? You still awake?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What Snape and Pomfrey said, about your magic…”

Harry forced his eyes to open a crack. “Yeah?”

“Is that what happened out there? It went wonky or something?”

“Um…yeah?” he murmured. “Kinda…complicated. Tell you later?”

Ron nodded, biting his lip.

“Wha’s wrong?” Harry prodded around another yawn.

“I think you might have hit Snape with something.”

Harry blinked, and tried really hard to keep his eyes open.

“I mean, you’re kind of out of it, so maybe you didn’t notice how he was acting, I mean, how he was looking at you just now, like…or just now, when he… It’s only, he was acting like…like a…” Ron looked around as if checking for eavesdroppers, leaned forward, and whispered, “like a dad.”

Tired or no, Harry burst out laughing.

“I’m serious!” Ron insisted. “He’s not right, and it’s way creepy! I think you might have cast some sort of spell on him! Like a paternal spell or an opposite personality curse. Those exist, right?”

Harry giggled so hard that he had to wipe away a tear. He didn’t even know why it was so funny. He blamed his tired mind and the idea of what Snape might _really_ be like as a dad. He couldn’t quite picture it, but he thought the man might not be too incredibly bad at it if he could only get his head out of his--

“All I’m trying to say is, are you sure you should sleep yet? Maybe you should, you know, reverse the spell first?”

Harry’s giggles were fading but he grinned. “I didn’t curse him, Ron.”

Ron looked skeptically at the curtains, as if he could see through them into Pomfrey’s office, where she was no doubt speaking with Snape.

“I’ve got--” Harry yawned, “a lot to tell you ‘bout this summer. Later. Promise. Yeah?”

Ron still was skeptical, but his features softened. “Yeah. Go ahead and sleep. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

He thought he murmured “thanks” but couldn’t be positive, for sleep claimed him almost immediately.

* * *

He dreamed.

The nightmares stayed away for once, and he dreamed. He dreamed of soft pillows and of being held. He dreamed of snow, and of flying on his broom, and of chocolate and of magical hugs. And as he dreamed, it shifted to memory. The memory of a dream. Or a dream of a memory. Whatever. All he knew was that it was real, these moments that he remembered of Snape caring for him and talking to him and comforting him when he was scared.

They were soothing dreams, soothing memories, and he didn’t want them to end.

And yet, it was glorious, this feeling of lightness that came with waking up slowly from peaceful dreams to the soft sounds of knowing that someone else was at his bedside. He could hear the barest of sounds - breathing, the turning of a page, the faint scratch of a shifting body on the seat of a chair. All he’d known over the past several nights was the quick jolt of terror-fueled wakefulness. He nestled further into his covers, holding on to the last threads of peaceful sleep for as long as possible.

The breathing paused and then started again, and that disruption drew him closer to alertness. Finally, he blinked his eyes open into the dim room. He was in a bed. The Hospital Wing, he remembered as he looked around at his half-drawn curtains and focused on Professor Snape reading a book in a bedside chair.

Unnoticed, he watched the professor for several seconds. He could see even more clearly now that Snape’s guard was down, the lines etched into his face that betrayed the constant pain. He was tired, and Harry wondered when the man had last had a decent night’s sleep.

He had only seen images in Voldemort’s mind, but he knew what they meant. He knew that Voldemort had been making Snape’s Dark Mark burn constantly ever since he’d rescued Harry. Two weeks of constant, burning pain. It must be pure torture. It _was_ torture. Honestly, Harry was impressed Snape hadn’t murdered any students yet.

He swallowed, and he was unprepared for how dry his throat was, as it caused a coughing fit. He rose to his elbows to attempt to stop coughing, and he felt a glass of water press into his hand. He gratefully shifted his weight to one arm and drank greedily from the glass. The cool water felt soothing on his parched throat.

As soon as it was empty, a hand plucked the glass from his hands and another hand felt his forehead.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“Potion,” was Snape’s response. He held up a vial and Harry obediently drank it, shuddering at the vile taste. He didn’t even care to ask what it was, so much else was on his mind. Only, he couldn’t decide where to begin. He started with the easy questions.

“Where’s Ron?” he rasped and cleared his throat.

“In bed, if he knows what’s good for him,” answered Snape. “He stayed until curfew. As did Miss Granger, when she found out what happened. They will return in the morning.”

He licked his lips. “What time is it?”

“Near midnight. Your body needed the rest.”

He nodded. “Thanks for helping me out there. I didn’t know what to do…” he shuddered.

Snape waved off his thanks and eyed him critically. He must have been reassured by what he saw, for he settled back into the chair. “I would have arrived sooner if I’d known. I was in my personal quarters at the time. Fortunately, your classmates encountered Professor Sinistra, who alerted me of the summons.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Snape wrinkled his brow. “What for?”

“For disturbing you,” Harry said in a tone that said _obviously_. “It’s Saturday. Your day off.”

Snape stared. “You are welcome to summon me whenever you have need. I believe I already told you that.”

“Yeah…” Harry looked away. He might have told him that, and Harry knew he meant it, but he wasn’t positive he’d really wanted Harry to have to take him up on it.

His emotions must have been plain on his face. “I left the ring with you for a reason, Potter,” Snape said slowly, as if talking to a child. “You may call me anytime you have need.”

Harry clapped a hand to his forehead and moaned, “The ring! I forgot about the ring! Professor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about using it out there-”

Snape suddenly snapped, “For Merlin's sake, stop apologizing!” which surprised Harry into silence. The man got up from his chair and began to pace. “You do it entirely too much, and very often for things that are not in the least your fault. Do you have any _idea_ how maddening it is to hear you apologize to me for things entirely outside your control, or for things that you have a completely justified excuse for doing or not doing, while I know full _well_ that I am _currently_ committing wrongs against _you_?” he ranted. His eyes were jet black and he waved his hands in a frustrated gesture. “And I know that you know that. You are quite intelligent. Perhaps more intelligent than I am in certain respects, and you know me well enough to know how rare an admission _that_ is coming from me! I keep making mistakes with you, and you know that I do, so why do you persist in _apologizing_ to me instead of condemning me?”

Harry didn’t realize Snape wanted a response until a few seconds of silence had passed. He chewed his lip, not sure how to respond. He settled on, “Do you _want_ me to condemn you?”

“Yes!” ground out Snape.

“Okay,” Harry shrugged and threw caution to the wind. “You’re being an idiot.” Snape looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t truly thought Harry would accept the invitation to rip into him, and Harry took advantage of the moment to pour out everything he’d been keeping bottled up over the past two weeks. “ _You’re_ the one who told me I had to start trusting adults more, and I told you why I can’t, that they always leave or let me down, and then what’s the first thing you do? Leave and let me down!” He sat up and could practically feel his eyes flashing as he got into it. It was exhilarating, finally giving vent to his feelings. “You’re an idiot and a hypocrite and a stubborn arse! We were good, things between us were good, and then you go and pretend like it never happened, but it _did_ happen! It happened, and you can’t erase it. I like you and I want you to teach me, and I think you want to teach me too, and you _know_ you’re the best person for the job! So you’re an idiot for pulling away just because it’s your MO. _So what_ if it’s all you know how to do? You’re at a _school_ —learn a new skill!”

The professor stayed silent while he vented. Harry took a deep breath, thinking if there was anything else to add, but he thought that about covered it. He felt calmer with that off his chest, and he cocked his head. “How’s that? Do you feel better now that I yelled at you?”

Snape quirked his lips. “Yes, actually. You?

Harry thought for a moment. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good,” he said, and Harry thought they must be the strangest two people on the planet, because they’d just chewed each other out, and apparently that’s all it took to break the ice these days.

“You’re right,” Snape admitted gravely. His hands were clasped together in his lap, and Harry had an image of a penitent younger Snape waiting for the headmaster to decide punishment for some infraction. “It only took me a few _days_ to realize I’d made a mistake in removing myself as your teacher. You had no one, something Dumbledore took great pains to remind me. Even he, who may wish to assist you, could not be available as much as you need. He has not had a spare moment, between the Order, and the war, and all that he must see to.” Snape cleared his throat. “And I began to think…perhaps even with all my failings, I could at least be better than _no one_. But by then…” He hesitated.

“The Mark,” Harry filled in, guessing. “It was getting worse.”

“Yes.” Snape heaved a resigned sigh. “I will be of no use to you in learning the mental arts whilst my attention is diverted to keeping myself both alive and sane.”

“I can help,” Harry said quietly. “I meant it before. I want to help.”

Shape shook his head. “There is nothing you can do.”

“It’s because of You-Know-Who’s increased power, right?” Harry pressed. “He couldn’t keep it up this long before, when he was just a normal wizard, could he? If I try to Legilimize him again, and take away more of his powers—”

“And now you see another one of my reasons for not wanting to involve you!” scowled Snape. “That is _not_ an option. I told you how dangerous such an endeavor can be.”

He leaned forward, excited. “Yeah, but that was before I did it! I already Legilimized him today! All I have to do is try it again and—”

“No,” barked Snape with a glare to match.

“Fine.” Harry crossed his arms. “A compromise. We go to Dumbledore. Let me make my case, and we’ll let him decide if he thinks I can do it.” Snape kept right on glaring, and Harry stared back until the man looked about ready to start growling, and he thought it best to change the subject. “What did you mean about the headmaster letting you make medical decisions for me?”

It was an effective transition, even if Snape’s look said his decision on the previous matter was unchanged. Still, he answered frankly, “You have no family to speak of and the headmaster is frequently unavailable. He thought it best to officially entrust a member of the staff with such authority. I am one of the few people aware of your unique needs. Hence…” he gestured to himself.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes,” Snape said immediately. “Especially now that I can see you’ve gone and turned yourself into a potions addict.” At that, Harry blanched and stuttered out a denial, but Snape set his jaw and pointed a finger straight at him. “Acute observation to physical symptoms of multi-day withdrawal is _not_ an area in which your intelligence exceeds mine!”

Harry snapped his jaw shut and looked down in shame. “I only took it for a week,” he mumbled.

“A week and a half,” Snape corrected. “And probably on a higher dose for half that time.”

“I feel fine now,” he protested.

“Because I gave you a temporary symptom-suppressing potion to aid in easing your withdrawal,” countered Snape.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Snape at least sounded relieved when he said, “It obviously hasn’t gone too far yet. You are still in the beginning stages of over-reliance. However, you may not have lost control over your magic at all today, had you been in possession of all your faculties. I will therefore from now on be overseeing any and all potions that you have access to. You will be in possession of only one vial at any given time, and you will be consuming them in my presence.”

“What! But—”

“Oh, please do argue,” interrupted Snape dryly. “I hardly have a reputation of bending to the whims of my students.”

He faltered but protested, “What about bedtime? I can’t go down to your office, drink potion, and make it to my dorm in ten seconds!”

“We will find alternative ways to deal with your nighttime ailments. And should you necessitate a bedtime draft, I will personally deliver it to your bedside.”

Harry gaped, torn between worry at what was meant by “alternative ways” and being appalled at the thought of his dorm mates’ reactions to Snape in their bedroom. “You can’t-”

“I can and I will.” He shut down Harry’s next argument with a stern look. “As you have chosen to apply your aptitude for cunning to a less than ideal pursuit, I will also be informed by Madame Pomfrey of any and all potions being given to your friends and dorm mates. You do not want to know what will happen if you attempt to circumvent these safeguards.”

Harry looked away, trying to hide his rapid blinking. He felt too much all of a sudden. Hopeless. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Afraid. He had always had nightmares, but they became worse every year. How could he face them every single night? Even when he’d known he couldn’t keep up his nightly doses, he’d hoped he could look forward to the occasional dreamless night. And he _really_ didn’t like his weaknesses being out on open display in front of Snape. He felt naked and exposed.

He sensed Snape stand, and his hand rested on the bed next to Harry. “I am not…unaware of the trials you have faced over the past year alone,” Snape said quietly. “The Dark Lord has attacked you multiple times. Tricked you, possessed you, kidnapped you, tortured you, murdered people close to you.”

Harry swallowed hard and stared at the wall.

“You have shown yourself able to be astute and cautious in the past. I therefore know that you are not unaware of the danger you have been courting. I do not fault you for finally succumbing to the temptation to block it all out with a potion, addictive or no. I…I have done so myself.” Snape’s eyes were averted when Harry glanced over at that admission. “I do not fault you,” he repeated. “I fault myself.”

Harry frowned in confusion. “Why-”

“Because I _knew_ ,” Snape said in a self-berating tone. “I knew that you would have a difficult time adjusting in the aftermath, and I did nothing, assuming that someone, anyone else would aid you. I…It is I who should apologize,” he said stiffly.

Harry couldn’t help but notice how, despite Snape’s discomfort, the words came easier than the first time they’d exchanged apologies to each other. He looked down to hide a small smile at the thought that Snape was getting better at this. “So…” he swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Does all this mean you’re going to start talking to me again?”

Snape looked chagrined as he answered, “My ‘avoidy’ approach does not appear to have been very effective, does it?”

That drew another small smile from Harry. “No. It was a sucky approach.” He looked up and pointed a finger. “And that one _is_ a word! Look it up in the dictionary.”

Snape huffed a laugh and reached out to give Harry a gentle shove back onto the mattress. “Time to rest. You may not feel tired, but your magical core is still exhausted from today’s strain. You will feel it tomorrow if you do not sleep as much as possible tonight.”

Harry nodded obediently. “You’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay,” Snape answered softly. He settled into his chair and pulled out his book, dimming the light for Harry but hovering a light in front of his book to read by. It illuminated Snape’s face, and Harry watched him for a long time before drifting off to sleep. He marveled that he could feel so raw and nervous and happy at the same time. Things might get rough, what with the nightmares and Snape’s new commitment to monitoring Harry’s every move near potions…but he thought that maybe things would be better, too.

He was lulled by the sound of turning pages and fascinated by the man’s concentration to his task. Especially when the flickers of pain crossed his face, though he was obviously trying to keep the pain from showing. Once more, Harry was awed by Snape’s courage as well as by his ability to hide certain aspects of himself when he wished to. He had almost forgotten while they talked that Snape’s arm was practically being burned from the inside out, and yet the man had managed to pretend the entire time as if he weren’t in pain.

He was going to help, he decided. He only had to get Dumbledore on his side, and then he was going to figure out how to alleviate Snape’s pain.

That decided, he smiled as he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of warm blankets and comforting arms and humming and the promise of snow.


	53. Security Blanket

“No! Absolutely not!”

“But—” Harry tried in vain to interrupt.

“Why are you still speaking? I said no!”

Harry had a strong feeling of deja vu, sitting on a chair next to Dumbledore while Snape paced the headmaster’s office. Of course, the last time they had all three been together like this, with the professor adamantly rejecting Harry’s latest idea, had been back at Grimmauld Place. Harry hadn’t been quite so certain of himself that time. He also hadn’t been quite so certain that he could trust Snape.

He held in a grin at the thought of how completely things had changed. It occurred to him that he shouldn’t feel so light and happy in the midst of an argument—not to mention in the midst of a wicked withdrawal headache—but he couldn’t help himself. From the time he’d woken up that morning, Snape had made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere this time. He’d been there with a nutritive potion, made certain Harry ate all his breakfast, and given him “precisely twenty minutes, Potter,” to chat with his friends before he and Snape were expected in the headmaster’s office. Harry supposed if he were in a worse mood, Snape’s hovering might feel overbearing, but today, it simply felt nice to be noticed again.

Unfortunately, the professor’s own mood was taking a downturn.

Harry knew that Snape had already told Dumbledore about Harry’s idea to help with the Dark Mark. He knew, because Snape had been nearly smug when he’d accompanied Harry here. It was apparent that this was meant to be an intervention of sorts. Snape knew Harry well enough by now to know that once he got an idea into his head, he wouldn’t simply let it go because he was told to. So Dumbledore, it seemed, was to be the one to tell him in no uncertain terms that purposely trying to Legilimize Voldemort was off the table.

Which he did. Sort of. But not really. “You must build up to something like that, Harry,” didn’t seem to be quite what Snape had in mind. He took it as the headmaster’s tacit agreement that Harry could do it if only he practiced first, and he had immediately ranted on about it being too dangerous, about Harry not having the control needed to do something like that, about what would happen if the Dark Lord realized what he was trying, and on and on. Harry hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise, and Dumbledore hadn’t even tried.

“Really, Professor Snape, do sit,” said Dumbledore calmly when Snape finally paused for breath. He held out a bowl of lemon drops to Harry, who took one out of politeness.

Snape glared at them both. “I think I have the right to-”

“Sit, Severus,” ordered Dumbledore, that time with authority.

Snape sat. He was definitely pouting in his own way, with his lips pinched together and his arms crossed, but he sat. His eye was twitching as well, but Harry was fairly certain that was due to the pain from his arm, as his eye had been twitching all morning.

“Now that we can speak calmly,” Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, “I am in no way suggesting that Harry attempt something so dangerous right away.”

“You should not be suggesting that he do it at all!” Snape snapped.

“Yes. Well,” Dumbledore took a sip of tea. “Would that we lived in a perfect world.”

Snape glared at him as if personally betrayed. Which Harry thought might not be too far from the truth, since they had to have spoken about this beforehand, however briefly, and Snape had thought he knew the probable outcome going into the meeting.

Dumbledore sighed. Harry noted that he still looked as worn as he had the last time they spoke, but there was a new light in his eyes. It looked like hope. “Let us examine the facts of the matter.” The headmaster held up his fingers as he counted. “One, Harry has more access to power than he did before, and furthermore, that power may grow. There is no indication that he is currently at his fullest possible strength. Two, he will _not_ be sitting idly by while this war is fought. A prophecy and the connection marked by his scar are evidence enough that he will actively participate, regardless what you or I might wish for him. Three,” his voice grew soft, “I have a personal desire to see you live, Severus.”

“Me too,” Harry chimed in, raising his hand a little.

“There, you see,” Dumbledore gestured at Harry with a smile. “There are plenty who would miss you, and you owe it to them to explore every avenue available to liberate yourself from the Mark’s hold.”

Harry hardly thought that the two of them equated to _plenty_ , and apparently Snape agreed, for his glare turned to exasperation. “Not that I disagree with your assertion that I would be missed,” Snape said in a dry tone that made it very clear he was disagreeing with that assertion, “but if one’s life is measured by those who will mourn him, then I hardly think that sacrificing the Boy Who Lived for the sake of a Death Eater spy will win you points with the masses.”

“I’m not going to be _sacrificed_ ,” Harry said with a slight eye roll. Geez, Snape was so dramatic sometimes. “I just want to try something I’ve already done before. Only, on purpose this time.”

“Oh, that simple, is it?” growled Snape.

“Probably not,” Harry admitted, then added with a smile, “That’s why I’ve got you to teach me!”

Snape shook his head. “To teach the mental arts requires a disciplined and controlled mind. Until I can ascertain a method for easing the physical and mental strain that I am currently under, I am entirely unfit to attempt to guide your mind through any process whatsoever, much less one that could result in your mind being turned to mush!”

Harry’s grin fell, even as he tried to hide his disappointment at Snape’s words. He’d assumed Snape would start to teach him again, but did that mean he wouldn’t? Or couldn’t? The man hadn’t outright said that he’d teach him, after all… Harry had simply assumed. Rather than dwell on that, he asked softly, “Is the pain from the Dark Mark really that bad?”

Snape watched him for a moment and said gruffly, “If I tell you no, will you desist in this foolish quest?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “Not as long as You-Know-Who can do this to you.”

Snape slumped back into his chair and tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at Dumbledore, then back to Harry, sighed heavily, and said, “At least promise me that you will not rush headlong into this as is your tendency. Build your mental strength, practice your Occlumency and Legilimency skills, and do not so much as _think_ of attempting to breach the Dark Lord’s mind until the headmaster and I deem you ready.”

Harry pursed his lips, considering. He was certain that Snape, knowing he couldn’t win the argument now, was merely trying to put it off until…well, until never. But at Snape’s stern look, he figured he had little choice but to agree. He nodded slowly. “I promise.”

“There now,” said Dumbledore. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Lemon drop?” He offered the bowl to Snape, who looked at it and scowled. The headmaster smiled pleasantly and placed the bowl back on the desk. Turning to Harry, he said, “Professor McGonagall tells me that you have been progressing well in catching up to your classmates.”

Harry nodded slowly, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “Um, I mean, I still have a bit to go. I got a little distracted this weekend, for obvious reasons…but I’m almost there.” He almost asked how McGonagall knew. She had only checked in with him once the first week he’d been back, then she had simply trusted Hermione to keep him on track with his schoolwork. Not that he was complaining. It was nice to not be badgered by his Head of House, on top of everything else. Even if he’d felt more alone for it…

But again, he wasn’t complaining.

“Very good, very good,” Dumbledore smiled and sipped his tea. “Perhaps it is time then to resume your Occlumency lessons in earnest.”

Harry nodded and darted a glance at Snape, who shifted but made no move to speak. He shot a questioning look at Dumbledore, who winked at him over the rim of his tea cup. He almost laughed at the headmaster’s unsubtle hint that the ball was in his court. Apparently—and with Dumbledore’s blessing—he was going to have to talk Snape into it.

“So who’s…um, are—are you going teach me again, professor?” he looked at Snape, trying not to let show quite how hopeful he was.

Snape returned his gaze for a few seconds, his fingers tapping on the arm of his chair, before he said hesitantly, “I do not think—”

“We don’t have to mind meld or anything like that, not if you’re not feeling well,” he said quickly. “Just, maybe you could tell me what to do, guide me through it, that sort of thing. I won’t be much trouble, and I’ll practice as much as you tell me to. Promise.”

Snape’s fingers tapped out a cadence on the chair of his arm. “The headmaster really would be more equipped to teach you.” Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking, if he was trying to get out of it because he didn’t want to or because he wasn’t sure it was best for Harry.

He took a chance on the latter and said, “He’s so busy though, with the Order and all.” He turned to Dumbledore. “Do you really think you’ll have time?” He looked at the headmaster expectantly and was met with an eye twinkle.

“I’m afraid young Harry is not wrong,” Dumbledore said easily. “I cannot fit in an Occlumency lesson until…oh, third week of October?”

Snape gave Dumbledore a look of exasperation at the obvious lie, but he either didn’t care for the odds of arguing two against one, or he wasn’t all that set against it. He cleared his throat and met Harry’s gaze. “Tuesday. Seven o’clock. My office. Don’t be late.”

Harry nodded eagerly, trying not to grin like an idiot.

Snape gave a short nod and stood. “With your permission, I will be taking my leave of you, headmaster. I have several potions to brew and lessons to plan before tomorrow.”

Dumbledore gave a polite nod. “Of course.”

“Um, me too?” Harry looked between the professors and perched on the edge of his chair. Now that Snape was talking to him again, he wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

“A few more minutes, if you don’t mind, Harry.” Dumbledore poured some more tea into both their cups.

Harry sank back down and watched as Snape’s robes billowed behind him as he left. He felt like he’d lose something important if he let Snape out of his sight for too long, and he wondered if that meant there was maybe something wrong with him. It was okay for a little kid to need a security blanket. It wasn’t okay for a teenager to need security blanket in the form of a cantankerous teacher. Was Madame Pomfrey right? Did he need a…a Mind Healer or something? He shook his head and reached for his cup of tea to distract from that depressing thought.

“I am happy to see you and Professor Snape getting along so well,” said Dumbledore conversationally.

Harry looked askance at the headmaster. “You saw that we were arguing almost the whole time we were here, right?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Even close friends and family argue, Harry. Adversaries do not have a corner on the market. I do, however, find a marked difference in the way I approach arguments with those with whom I share a certain level of closeness. Do you not?”

Harry frowned in thought. Yes, he could see that. He’d argued with Ron loads of times. It hurt worse to fight with Ron than with, say, Draco, because in the end, he still cared deeply about Ron. Yet, they also bickered a lot over little things because they knew their friendship was strong enough to weather it. Sometime over the course of the summer, he had grown more comfortable with arguing and bickering with Snape in a way that didn’t make him want to run for cover. The contempt that had driven their arguments in previous years had given way to a grudging respect…and maybe it wasn’t even quite so grudging anymore. He found that he quite liked that thought.

He sipped his tea and asked, “Professor…you were upset about something when we spoke last week. Was it about Snape? When you said he couldn’t teach me, was it because of the Dark Mark?”

The familiar sadness flickered in Dumbledore’s eyes as he nodded. “It is perhaps slightly more complicated than that,” he said gently. “But yes, I was deeply grieved by Professor Snape’s situation. As for his instructing you…suffice it to say, when someone we care for is in pain, particularly a pain for which there is no known end or cure, it does not do to push them toward a path that may only lead to more pain.”

Harry frowned. “You think I’d hurt him?”

Dumbledore said gently, “My concern was rather the other way around.”

“Oh.”

“My dear boy,” said Dumbledore, leaning forward in his chair. “You know Professor Snape well enough by now for me to have some latitude in speaking plainly. He does not require someone else to hurt him. He is perfectly capable of doing so to himself, and also of transferring his pain to those around him.”

Harry nodded. He did know that. “You’re not still worried about him teaching me?”

“Oh, I worry about a great many things,” said Dumbledore. “In this instance, however, I am satisfied.”

“You’re sure? Because I want him to teach me, but I guess it’s selfish, isn’t it, if he’s not feeling up to it. Maybe I should—”

Dumbledore stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Do not underestimate the power of purpose, Harry. There is much outside Professor Snape’s control at the moment, and in the midst of that, he has made the conscious choice to come to your aid. That choice gives him purpose. I have seen a marked improvement in his demeanor over the weekend, and I am not so blind as to think that has little to do with you. You help him in allowing him to help you. Do not lose sight of that, and do not confuse having your needs met with selfishness.”

Harry bit his lip. His dream self had said something similar to him once, something about Snape needing to find purpose and hope again. He felt humbled at the thought that he could be a part of Snape’s rediscovering his purpose, though he didn’t really understand how teaching Harry could help Snape all _that_ much.

Dumbledore squeezed his arm and let go. “I merely ask that you be cognizant of his current limitations. Regardless how unaffected he is determined to appear in your presence, he _is_ in pain. He may require more patience or understanding from you than is usual. And if what he requires is time or space, I request that you give it to him.”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded gravely.

“Thank you, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled fondly at him, and Harry basked in the attention. He hadn’t wondered in a long while what it would have been like to have a grandparent, though as a child he’d imagined all sorts of alternate lives he could be living, complete with loving parents, siblings, and grandparents. But he thought that if he had had a grandfather, he might not have minded if he’d been a little bit like Dumbledore. Maybe not completely like him. His ideal grandfather would be less secretive. Perhaps with a touch more Hufflepuff and a touch less Slytherin in him. But Dumbledore made for a nice grandparent template to start out with.

Which led him to wonder if Snape had ever met Harry’s real grandparents, when he was friends with Lily. And since he couldn’t ask all of his questions right away without overwhelming Snape with his curiosity, he decided he had better write down all his “questions for Snape” in a notebook. He might even get through a small fraction of them by the time he graduated Hogwarts.

* * *

“Let me get this straight.” Ron’s eyebrows squished together. “Snape was annoying at first, but not as annoying as you thought he’d be. And he made you work in his lab but you didn’t kill each other. And then he, um, agreed to teach you. Without being forced. And it went…” he wrinkled his nose to show his skepticism, “not horrible.”

Harry nodded patiently, even though they’d been over this several times already. He adjusted himself on his cushion on the floor of the Room of Requirement, where he and his friends had gone in order to avoid being overheard.

“And then you got captured, and so did he-”

“Because he was trying to save me.”

“Uh, yeah... And then you got out.”

“Because he saved me.”

“Okay.” Ron scratched his nose. “And now you think he’s…er, not horrible. And he doesn’t, um…”

“He doesn’t hate me anymore either,” filled in Harry, because that’s where Ron kept getting tripped up.

“He _really_ was friends with your mum?” asked Hermione excitedly.

Harry nodded with a grin. That was something he’d decided Snape would be okay with him sharing with his friends. It wasn’t an Order secret, after all, or something Snape had to be ashamed of. If they asked any of Snape’s and Lily’s past schoolmates who their friends had been, they’d find out easily enough. “But don’t tell anyone else, okay?” he added, certain that Snape _would_ mind if it became Hogwarts gossip. “I mean it. No one else. He’s really private about his past. He’d hate being asked about it or thinking everybody was talking about it.”

“Not a word, promise,” said Ginny with a reassuring smile, and he was glad he’d invited her to join them. She’d been there, at Grimmauld Place and at Kneader’s, and she’d seen what things were like between Harry and Snape before school started. He figured it might help Ron to believe him if he heard it from his own sister. Even if so far, Ron was looking at all three of them as if they were pod people.

“Did Professor Snape tell you about her?” asked Hermione.

“A little. Not much,” he admitted. “But some.” He almost told them about the stone and the letter, but they seemed too personal to Snape. Besides, he no longer had the stone. He felt a familiar pang of loss at the thought.

“Yeah, but back to the, um, not hating you part…” said Ron with a shake of his head. “You’re _positive_ Snape isn’t under a spell?”

“ _Ron_ ,” scolded Hermione. They’d also been over this several times already.

“I’m just saying!” Ron held out his hands. “Or he could have a twin. Everybody has an evil twin, right? Well, maybe Snape _was_ the evil twin, and now he’s been replaced by the, you know, less-evil twin.”

“Snape doesn’t have a twin,” said Harry, and at the same time Ginny pointed out that, “Well, Snape still _is_ evil in class.”

“Hmm,” Ron looked them over as if considering their arguments.

“You know, he saved you too,” Harry pointed out. “When I found out what curses were used against you, and I told Snape, he didn’t have to get a message to Dumbledore, but he did, right away. And then Kneader was able to figure out the counter-curse. All because of Snape.”

Ron pulled a face. “Great. That’s all I need, being in the big git’s debt.”

“He won’t collect on it,” Harry snapped and then took a slow breath. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be irritated at Ron. After all, his friend hadn’t been there, day after day, as he and Snape had had to learn to get along and to rely on each other. He’d have reacted the same way, he knew, if Ron had come to him last year with a tale like this. More kindly, he said, “Snape can still be a git sometimes, alright? I know that. I’m not saying he’s a saint now. I’m only saying that we’ve managed to patch things up. Bury the hatchet. Start over. That sort of thing.”

“And that you…” Ron pulled his I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-say-this face. “You trust him.”

“Yes.”

Ron was quiet for several minutes, which was not at all like Ron, and the girls seemed content to stay in the background of this part of the conversation. Harry shifted nervously. “I’m not saying you have to like him too, you know,” he rushed to fill the silence. “Or that you have to trust him. Just…just trust _me_. Trust that I’m not nutters, and that I know what I’m doing. Him teaching me…it _helped_. Like, really, really helped.”

“Which you think you need,” Ron said slowly, “because you’re, like, Merlin-level powerful now.”

“I’m not—I mean, I don’t really know _how_ powerful I am,” Harry admitted. They’d talked about his magic too, though he wasn’t sure he had explained it very well. “It’s new. I’m not really sure what I can do yet or how.”

“But you think you need Snape to help.” Ron was still eyeing him skeptically, but Harry was gratified to note that he was no longer looking at him like a head case they needed to immediately transport to the mental ward at St Mungo’s.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Why not McGonagall or Dumbledore? Or, you know…anybody else but Snape?”

“Snape’s smart, Ron. Like, genius-level smart. He knows strategy, and he knows all about Voldemort, and he’s probably the best Occlumens Dumbledore even knows. If he can’t help me figure out how to navigate this connection with Voldemort or to keep my magic under control, nobody can.”

“But you still think he’s a git…” he said as if holding on to some reason to believe Harry hadn’t completely lost it.

Harry sighed. “Sometimes, yeah.” It’s not like Snape needed him to defend him as if he were some white knight hero. Snape would probably cart him off to St Mungo’s himself if he tried to paint him like that.

Ron made a noise halfway between a grunt and a hum, probably getting caught up on the “sometimes” qualification. He shook his head as if to clear it and said, “Well…as long as you still think he’s a git…”

“You’re okay with it?” Harry perked up.

Ron’s face gave a pained expression. “’Course not. He’s a git.”

“I didn’t catch that,” said Ginny with a roll of her eyes. “What is he again? One more time, Ron.”

“He is!” Ron insisted.

Harry rubbed his temples. He’d had a headache all day, and he was started to feel chills coming on. But there wasn’t anything to be done. Snape had told him he’d have to deal with it. Now that his magic was stable, his punishment was apparently to be in pain. Okay, so Snape had called it a “natural consequence for abusing a potion, and hopefully you will think twice about doing it again,” but Harry thought that was the same thing as a punishment.

“You okay, Harry?” Ron asked, and he looked up to see his friend eyeing him with concern. He’d been watching him all day as if he were about to explode, and Harry couldn’t blame him. It must have been pretty frightening to be on the Quidditch pitch when Harry had almost lost control like that.

“I’m fine,” he huffed. “Look. I’m going to have lessons with Snape, don’t know how often yet, but I’m doing it. Just don’t hate me for it, alright?”

“It’s not you I hate,” growled Ron.

“Yeah. I know.” He sighed. “Just. If you could pretend around me like you hate him a little bit less than you do, that would be nice.”

Ron pursed his lips but finally nodded, and Harry answered with a relieved smile. He knew he hadn’t changed Ron’s mind about Snape, but he felt loads better having at least told him about his changed relationship with his teacher. Even though Ron would probably still have to be reined in if Snape so much as sneered at him or his friends, it was a huge step in the right direction that he wasn’t ranting and raving about it right at this moment.

And even if he did at some later time, they were friends. Like brothers, really. They were strong enough to weather it.

* * *

Tuesday evening was only two days away, but it took ages to arrive. Maybe Harry’s headaches had something to do with it, which probably weren’t even due to withdrawal from the potion anymore so much as his determination to get through long, sleepless nights without any help. Or maybe the weather had something to do with it, as it had rained almost nonstop since Sunday afternoon. Come to think of it, the rain matched his mood: dark, drowsy, nervous, with a side of hope for the possibility of a sunny day.

And now he was so tired that he was waxing poetic. Great. Just great.

He groaned and pillowed his head into his crossed arms on the dinner table. The light was killing his eyes.

“I hear you,” said Ron. “Herbology was brutal. Which is ridiculous, yeah? Herbology is supposed to be this nice, easy subject, and then Professor Sprout decides to go and grade us on our ability to catch man-eating plants before they make plant food out of us.”

“Herbology isn’t supposed to be _easy_ ,” corrected Hermione’s voice from across the table. She must have just arrived, as she hadn’t been there when Harry buried his head in his arms less than a minute ago. “To be a true proficient in the study of Herbology requires years of advanced study. And Leaping Toadstools are hardly carnivorous, Ron.”

“No, but bloody annoying, they are,” groused Ron. After another second, he asked quietly, “Alright, mate?”

“Yeah, fine,” Harry mumbled into his sleeve, ignoring that his friends had been asking that a lot lately. “Never better.” He peeked out from the crook of his arm long enough to verify that Snape still wasn’t at the head table before burrowing back down.

He’d had a couple days to look forward to resuming lessons with Snape, and he had already thought of so many things to add to his “questions for Snape” list. He wanted to know more about Legilimency, and the Death Eaters, and Snape himself…and he really, really wanted to know more about his mum. The main question he kept coming back to, however, was one that he wasn’t about to ask out loud: Was Snape back for good this time, or only until Harry screwed up again?

Because Harry screwing up was basically inevitable. He was a teenager, and not only was his impulse control not always at full operational capacity, sometimes he did or said things that he didn’t even know would get him into trouble until after they were done or said. He decided to blame the Dursleys for that, at least in part. How was he supposed to know every possible way in which he could mess this up when nobody had bothered to sit him down as a child and teach him how to be a normal human being? And then there was his stubborn self-reliance—another gift from the Dursleys—that got him into trouble almost as often as it helped him.

This time, he and his stubborn self-reliance decided that Snape would be far more likely to stick around if Harry kept the complaints about his nightmares to a minimum. Sure, Snape had said he’d help, had even asked him during each of the past two days if he needed help, but what did that really mean? A potion was out of the question, and the professor couldn’t wish the dreams away. The way Harry saw it, whining about things like being scared of the dark would only serve to make the man tire of him more quickly than he otherwise would. He already was pretty sure he was about to be lulled into a false sense of security, and that Snape would decide after a month or two that Harry was too tiresome to have around any longer. So he at the very least was going to do all he could to drag out this thing with Snape for as long as possible.

Step one: don’t be an annoying, whiny little kid. That was as far as he’d gotten in his Plan to Keep Snape Around. It seemed like a good start.

He felt something small and cool press against his arm and he raised his head. Hermione was holding out a small potion vial. “Headache draft,” she explained at the question in his face. “Never leave home without it,” she added with a smile that didn’t quite hide her concern.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he murmured as he took another peek at the head table. Still no Snape. He wasn’t sure how serious the professor had been about monitoring every potion Harry consumed, so he wasn’t about to blatantly take one in his presence. He downed the potion and felt its effects immediately. He still felt tired, but the light wasn’t so bright now, and the pounding in his head dulled to a faint ache.

“Wish I could leave the _castle_ ,” Ron moaned. “If this rain doesn’t let up by tomorrow, I’m going to fly my broom through the hallways, just see if I don’t.”

“You can’t,” said Harry as he reached for a dinner roll. Now that his head wasn’t pounding, he realized he was starving. “If you get in trouble, we don’t have a decent backup Keeper this year.”

“Hmm,” his friend frowned. “Too right, Harry. I suppose I can wait another day, see if it clears up.”

Hermione shook her head good naturedly, and they soon were eating their fill and talking of rain and Quidditch and their upcoming Transfiguration assignment. Before he knew it, it was almost seven o’clock, and Ron was giving him a pinched look as he headed for his Occlumency lesson.

The Occlumency lesson went well. Snape didn’t introduce anything new, simply reviewed what Harry had learned over the summer and told him to sit down and practice while the professor set to work brewing a potion on a desk nearby. That was alright with Harry. Practicing Occlumency with his professor nearby was more calming than when he practiced in his dorm, where he was often only a few minutes away from being interrupted by one of his friends.

It was a little difficult to concentrate at first, as it was evening and bedtime was drawing nearer—he really _hated_ bedtime these days—but it was an improvement over his most recent attempts. Before he knew it, Snape’s voice was breaking through his concentration. “That will do for tonight. Did you manage to construct a shield and hold it?”

Harry breathed deeply like Snape had taught him, slowly disengaging his mind from the exercise. After almost a full minute, he opened his eyes and grinned. “Yep. I think it’s getting stronger!”

Snape nodded once. “Good. Next time we will work on fortifying your mind against external distraction.”

“When will we move on to Legilimency?” he asked. Snape’s face tightened, but Harry couldn’t regret asking. The Dark Mark wasn’t going anywhere. The sooner Harry learned, the better.

“Legilimency requires more focus,” Snape answered sharply, “as well as the ability to direct the threads of your mind in multiple directions. We will work on those skills through Occlumency first. Once you have managed to display an appropriate level of control, we will progress to the study of Legilimency.”

Harry pursed his lips. That sounded like an excuse to keep him studying Occlumency for forever, not ever moving on to Legilimency, but he wouldn’t argue. Not yet. First, he’d work hard and try to show Snape that he could do it.

“You have a full hour until curfew,” Snape dismissed him. “Best head back to your dorm and get to work on your remaining schoolwork.”

Harry scrunched up his face. “You know there are these things called ‘fun’ and ‘friends’ too, right? Life doesn’t revolve around school.”

Snape shot him a mild glare. “You are _at_ school. Whatever fun and friends you may engage in on the side, your life _does_ and _should_ revolve around your studies.”

Harry silently disagreed, but he merely harrumphed and swung his legs, making no move to get up. “Do you need help?”

“You are quite attached to the concept of ‘helping,’ aren’t you?” Snape added a pinch of something powdery to his cauldron.

Harry shrugged. “I can chop ingredients.”

“My ingredients are already prepared.”

“I can—”

“Were you or were you not obsessing only seconds ago about having fun with your friends?”

“Staying here is fun too.” He made his way over and peered into the cauldron. “Is it supposed to be so bubbly?” Snape gave him a look that fully communicated that he was a _Potions master_ , for Merlin’s sake, so of _course_ it was supposed to be bubbly, which made Harry grin. “Why did you decide to become a Potions master, anyway?” he asked curiously. “Was it because it came so easily to you, or did you look at a book of wizard careers and think, ‘oh hey, Potions master sounds fun’?”

Snape snorted as he added several drops of a bright pink liquid and then stirred the potion precisely three times clockwise. “I have always enjoyed potions. It was a natural and logical path for me to take.”

“Did you ever regret it? Maybe wish you’d picked something else to do?”

“I have many regrets,” said Snape without looking up. “Mastering Potions is not one of them.”

“So what do you—”

“If you are so desperate to help,” Snape speared him with a long-suffering look, “you may assist me in retrieving the ingredients for my next potion.”

Harry grinned. “What do you need?”

With a wave of his wand, a list appeared on the board in front of the classroom. “One jar of each will suffice. You may retrieve them from my private stores. The door to my office is unlocked.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. Snape was trusting him to raid his office for potions ingredients? Alone? He supposed so, as Snape’s attention was already back on his potion. He tried not to feel proud of the fact that Snape probably could count on one hand the number of students that he trusted to do that, and Harry had made the list. He took note of the ingredients— _aconite, mint, sage, borage, firefly, salt water_ —and jumped up and over to the office, muttering the list over and over to himself. “Aconite, mint, sage, borage, firefly, salt water. Aconite, mint, sage, borage, firefly, salt water.” Thankfully, Snape’s potions shelves were meticulously kept up and labeled. It only took him a few minutes to find all of the items and then to decide that carrying them out in two trips was definitely preferable to dropping any from his too-full hands.

He was almost out of the office when he saw a familiar-looking name on the label of a medium-sized jar.

Adder’s fork.

He stopped in his tracks. The missing ingredient to brewing more Dreamless Sleep Potion. His key to dreamless nights, headache-free days, a chance to feel rested and not jumpy…

It was practically beckoning him closer, glaring out at him from its position on a nearby shelf.

No. No, he couldn’t do that, couldn’t betray Snape like that. And besides, he could easily become addicted again, way worse than before, and Snape had lectured him about letting that happen.

But just think…no more nightmares…

 _No._ He slammed the door on his thoughts and resolutely carried the potions ingredients to Snape’s table. On the second trip into the office, he didn’t even glance in the direction of the jar, though he could feel its presence as if it were a living, breathing creature waiting to pounce.

No sooner had he placed the second set of bottles on the desk, than Snape handed one back to him. “I don’t need firefly wings.”

“Then why’d you put it on the list?”

Snape waved at the front of the classroom and said, “I didn’t.”

Harry frowned. “Aconite, mint, sage, borage, _firefly_ ,” he stressed, “salt water. See? It’s there. And there wasn’t any other firefly jar on the shelf. Just the wings.”

“Look closer,” the professor said impatiently, and Harry scratched his head, not sure what he was missing. He examined the jar.

“The board, not the jar,” said Snape, frowning.

He looked up, squinted, and walked closer. “Oh,” he said when he reached the professor’s desk and read a clearly printed _flitterby_. And really, whose ridiculous idea was it to name two potions ingredients so similarly? “Sorry…I’ll get it. One sec.” He studiously ignored the adder’s fork that time too.

Snape barely glanced at the small jar that he placed on the desk. Instead, he looked at Harry appraisingly. His impatience was gone, replaced by his puzzle-solving face. He pointed to his left and up two rows. “Sit.”

Harry frowned in confusion. “What-”

“In your old seat. Now.” He didn’t appear upset, but his tone brooked no argument, so Harry obeyed, thoroughly confused. Snape followed, conjured a quill and a piece of parchment, and set them on the desk in front of Harry. He then waved his wand so that a potion recipe appeared on the board. “Stay seated and copy down those instructions. Inform me when you are done.”

He wordlessly began to write, though he shot a few questioning glances over at Snape as he did so. The man was paying him no mind, adding another ingredient to his bubbly potion.

“Done,” Harry said after a few minutes.

Snape approached his desk and snatched up the parchment. He studied it, and Harry shifted nervously. He felt as if he’d sat an exam without being told what he was supposed to study. When Snape finally lowered the parchment, he gave Harry a long searching look, with a side of accusation. “Why did you never inform me that you could not properly see the board?”

He shifted nervously. “I can. I copied it out, didn’t I?” Seriously. _Anybody_ could have gotten firefly out of flitterby!

Snape set the parchment in front of Harry and pointed at each line in turn. “One-fourth is not three-fourths. If you added that little castor oil to this potion, it would not be nearly so potent. Chicken lips and chicken legs are not remotely the same ingredient. You may as well toss the potion in the lake for all the good the substitution will do you. Hopefully before you add five, not three, drops of exploding fluid. And doxin is not even a valid ingredient. You may feel free to search my stores for such a thing, but it will be a long and fruitless search.”

Harry squinted at the board. “Oh. Well…I got most of it right, didn’t I?”

“No doubt because you have learned to compensate for your poor eyesight by a combination of sight reading and guesswork.” He waved his wand and a new set of instructions appeared on the board. “Copy.”

Harry fidgeted but grasped his quill as instructed. Only, the instructions made no sense. He looked at Snape in confusion.

“It is a string of unrelated numbers and letters. Copy. Now.”

He hated this. He could see well enough in general, but no matter how he squinted, he couldn’t decide if that was a “D” or an “O”…or maybe a “B” or a “C.” And whose idea was it to make “V” and “Y” almost the same? Or was it a “T”? Ugh. He couldn’t help but feel thoroughly frustrated that he was failing Snape’s test. He scratched out one of the strings of letters and started over, and he was so annoyed by the third time he did this that the quill tore a hole in the parchment and he threw it down on the desk.

“Can I go now? Since my lesson’s over?”

“You wished to stay,” said Snape as he picked up the parchment. “So now you will stay.” He looked over the nonsense words for long enough that Harry crossed his arms and sank into his seat in mortification. Having someone like Snape see his failure like that made him feel totally, unbelievably stupid. The man was quiet for far longer than it should have taken him to look over the small amount of writing. He finally set the parchment down, took a seat next to Harry, and without looking at him, asked, “Exactly how old are your glasses?”

Harry shrugged.

“That is not an answer.”

Harry let out a breath. Deciding to be honest, he admitted, “I don’t remember exactly. The Dursleys had to take me to the doctor after my primary school did a physical exam…I think I was eight or nine, maybe? And they took me once more sometime after I started Hogwarts. But after they realized nobody here was going to make them…” he trailed off and shrugged again.

Snape gave him a sharp look. “And other medical appointments? Doctor? Dentist?”

“I didn’t get sick much. And I wasn’t allowed sweets anyway, so…” He swallowed at the anger in Snape’s eyes, even though he was intelligent enough to know it wasn’t directed at him. “I managed okay though…” he trailed off weakly.

“How often does your eyesight interfere with your lessons?”

“Not a lot,” he insisted. “Really. I sit near the front in Transfiguration and Charms, and Hermione’s great about sharing her History of Magic notes. And not everybody uses the board as often as you do, so…so it’s not a big deal,” he said, wishing for the conversation to be over. Or for the floor to swallow him up. That might work too.

Snape was silent for a moment, then said, “You should have asked to sit in the front row.”

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t have made fun of me for that _at all_ ,” Harry retorted sarcastically.

He supposed Snape must not be able to refute that, as he was silent for a long moment before he deflected, “Well, you should have told _someone_.” Harry bristled at that, but before he could defend himself, Snape huffed and said sharply, “No. Who am I kidding? Of course you wouldn’t. I was you, and _I_ certainly didn’t.”

Harry snapped his mouth shut at that. It wasn’t often that Snape mentioned his past, and he silently willed him to go on. When he didn’t, Harry prodded, “Did you… You didn’t have glasses, did you?”

“No.” Snape sighed. “No, I was not being quite so literal.”

“Oh.” He wondered if Snape had had any sort of handicap to deal with as a child. He supposed his lack of social skills probably qualified, if nothing else. After a minute of silence, Harry tentatively said, “You, um, you can tell me about it, if you want to.” At Snape’s startled look, he clarified, “I mean, you know, if you ever need somebody to talk to. I don’t know all of what your childhood or your parents were like, but I bet I can understand it better than lots of people could.”

Snape’s eyes looked haunted in the instant before he turned away. He asked woodenly, “Did your uncle drink?”

Harry shook his head before he remembered Snape wasn’t looking at him. “No, not really. I mean, he did a few times, but it only made him…worse. I stayed out of his way.”

“You hid.”

Harry hesitated, then admitted, “Yeah. I hid.” They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Harry didn’t need to be a genius to know that Snape had just confided in him that his father had been a drunk. And judging by what Harry had seen in his head during their Occlumency lessons, he had been a mean drunk. But Snape didn’t appear ready to say anything more about it, and Harry figured he could respect that.

Snape cleared his throat and looked at Harry closely, as if he were really _seeing_ him, and said, “You should not have been made to compensate for your poor eyesight merely because your family is cruelly neglectful and your professors are inexcusably oblivious.”

Harry squinted, not to see better, but to hide how the words affected him. He was still embarrassed, but at the same time, it felt strange—a nice, welling up in his throat kind of strange—to be noticed, and to be told that maybe it was okay to want some things to be better.

Snape stood and straightened his robes. “If you wish to stay, you may prepare the ingredients for my next potion. Or you may return to your dormitory. Either choice is acceptable.” He walked back to the table where his cauldron was set up and carefully stirred the lightly bubbling potion once clockwise and twice counterclockwise.

Harry slowly stood and walked over to join Snape. “I’ll stay,” he said, watching the professor to see if that was truly okay. With a wave of Snape’s wand, a parchment appeared on the desk in front of him with the instructions for the potion clearly listed.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured and reached for the jar of mint.

They fell into an easy silence, and when Harry broke it to tentatively ask a few of the questions he’d been storing up—like whether Snape owned any house-elves (no); what he really, truly liked to read in his spare time (Dickens made the list); when was his birthday (January); and so on—Snape didn’t seem to mind. He answered, and even asked a few questions of his own. It was nice, simply talking, and not about their awful families or Voldemort or what difficult task lay ahead for either one of them. If not for curfew, he’d have been content to stay in the Potions classroom and crush sage all night long.

It made the nightmares even more stark that night, juxtaposed against the peace of the lab, but it gave him respite too, because in between the nightmares were brief moments when the sun shined through the darkness, and he dreamed of nice things like Dickens and fireflies and soft bubbly potions and was _happy_. Dreams were lot like life, he figured. Happiness didn’t last, so often brushed away by tragedy and pain, but that made it all the more precious to hold onto for as long as he could.


	54. Three Strikes

He couldn’t move. The chains were too tight. He twisted, trying to tell somebody, but his words died in his throat. Bellatrix Lestrange’s face hovered above him, too close, and he flinched.

“Wittle baby Potter,” she laughed.

He struggled, but the chains- No, they weren’t chains. They were arms. Nott’s arms! He gasped, trying to catch his breath as they constricted around him. He twisted, trying to get away from the larger man, but it was no use.

“Crucio!” he heard and cowered, waiting for the wave of pain to hit, but it didn’t.

“Why would it hurt?” Voldemort smiled, a dark, hungry smile, from where he stood next to Bellatrix. “We have not yet begun. You will know when we’ve begun,” he laughed, and a chorus of Death Eaters joined in.

“B-begun what?” he asked, but Voldemort and his Death Eaters were gone. It was dark. He was alone. Waiting. He tried to remember what he was waiting for, but he couldn’t remember, couldn’t think.

“No surprise there,” came Vernon’s voice, and Harry flinched into the darkness, listening for the direction of the voice. “Stupid as his father, that one. Not worth a lick. Should’ve tossed him out when we had the chance.”

Harry scowled, determined not to cower before his uncle, even if he couldn’t be seen through the darkness.

He no longer liked the dark. Not that he’d ever liked darkness, exactly, but he’d never been afraid of it either. Long days in his cupboard, he’d found the darkness a respite from what awaited him outside the locked door. The spiders didn’t bother him. But now, after the cell, after Voldemort, after his potion… He cursed Voldemort for making him afraid of the dark.

“Don’t be a coward,” came Snape’s voice, and Harry raised his chin hopefully at the familiar voice before the words registered and his stomach dropped.

“I’m not a coward,” he argued pitifully. _Was_ he a coward?

Snape snorted. “Afraid of the dark. Afraid of nightmares. Are you afraid of the boogeyman, Potter?”

“I’m not,” he protested weakly, but Snape went on.

“You were afraid of me for years, and you still are, aren’t you?” he scoffed. “Afraid of losing me, as if I were yours to lose.”

“No-”

“Tell the truth, boy,” came Vernon’s voice again, and he flinched.

“Afraid of your own family,” mocked Snape. “Is there anything you _aren’_ t afraid of?”

Harry struggled against the chains…no, arms…no, ropes. They started to shake. Not knowing what held him increased his frustration, his fear. “I’m a Gryffindor,” he said feebly through choking gasps. “I’m brave.”

Snape snorted in derision.

“Yeah, Harry. You’re brave,” said Ron, and Harry drew in a deep breath. He _was_. He was afraid, but he was brave too. He could be both. He _could_. The chains shook him again, as Ron added, “Harry, wake up.”

“Choose,” barked Snape. “Afraid or brave? Afraid or brave?”

“Both,” he gasped. “I’m both.”

“Both what?” came Ron’s voice again. “Wake up. It’s a dream.”

“Afraid of dreams,” scoffed Snape.

“Am not!” Harry yelled even though he was.

The chains shook him sharply and he opened his eyes with a startled gasp. He jerked and stared confusedly at Ron’s face, lit up by the glow of a wand, before he started struggling anew.

“Hold it- Wait, stop!” rasped Ron, and he stilled. Ron slowly, tentatively reached behind him, and looking down, Harry saw that he was in bed and his blanket was twisted around his torso. Ron began undoing it. “You’re tangled,” said his friend gently, as if he were cornering a wild animal. “I’ll just…like so…aaaand you can move.”

He sat back and settled on the foot of the bed while Harry gingering scooted so that he could sit up against the headboard. He took a deep breath, and _oh_ did that feel nice. For several long moments, he simply breathed in and out, the remnants of his dream leaving his mind, but his mess of emotions slower to fade.

“Harry…” Ron bit his lip and gave him a probing gaze. “Are- are you alright? No, I mean it!” he cut off Harry’s automatic response. “You always say you are, but Hermione and I aren’t idiots, you know. You’ve been jumpy ever since school started, and you’re tired and rubbing your head all the time, and this isn’t the first time I woke you from a nightmare, and I thought Hermione was crazy when she said you weren’t eating much, but then I watched you yesterday, and she was right, and…” He trailed off, then said stubbornly, “Just…don’t lie. If you’re gonna lie, don’t bother answering.”

Harry nervously looked around at his bed hangings, and Ron gestured to his wand. “They can’t hear. I put up silencing charms,” he explained, and Harry sighed. He’d forgotten to put up his own silencing charms again. He rubbed his eyes and looked anywhere but at Ron, and after a few seconds, his friend sighed and muttered, “Fine, okay. Whatever,” and shifted to the side of the bed.

“I don’t know,” said Harry quickly, to stop Ron from leaving, and the redhead paused, watching him. “I- I mean, I’m okay, I really am, because I’m here, with you guys, and I’m alive, which is huge, and Snape’s teaching me again, which is also huge, and I’m _happy_ to be back. But- but-” he swallowed hard, and next thing he knew, everything poured out in a rush: “I’m also not okay because I keep seeing… _them_ , every time I close my eyes. I can’t get their voices out of my head, that awful laugh that Bellatrix Lestrange…every time she…and Nott’s angry eyes, and the way Voldemort looked when he…all smug and evil…and, and so much happened, Ron. So much. Not just Voldemort. And now I’m here and I’m supposed to pretend it didn’t happen? And I think I’m pretty good at it, until I go to sleep, and then I’m not.”

He bit his lip to stop it from trembling, but there were too many words in his head, so he kept going. “I’m scared that he’s going to capture me again, but at the same time I’m not scared at all, only angry, and I want to shake my fist at him for even trying, because I’d fight, Ron. I’d fight tooth and nail. I’d never cower or roll over. But what if fighting makes it worse, or what if the fighting never ends, or what if people get hurt in the crossfire? And now Snape _is_ in the crossfire, and what if he dies because I put him there? He doesn’t seem to blame me but he should. You all should, because you were attacked because of _me_ , Ron. Because you’re friends with me! Ginny was hit by something! What if she’d died or been seriously hurt? _You_ almost died, and I couldn’t…if you…I couldn’t-” He couldn’t go on, not unless he wanted to start crying.

He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until a hand on his shoulder made him flinch. He was glad that Ron wasn’t deterred by the flinch, just moved closer to put an arm around him, and the contact was soothing. He should feel embarrassed, but this was _Ron_. They’d already seen each other at their worst, most embarrassing moments. He rested his head on Ron’s shoulder, soaking in the comfort that his friend offered, all the more precious because such displays were rare between them.

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Harry steadied his breathing, then Ron said, “I’m alive ‘cause you figured out how to save me.”

Harry lifted his head a bit. “And S-”

“And Snape. I _know_.” Harry could practically feel Ron rolling his eyes. “Point is, it wasn’t your fault some psycho murderers went after me, but then it _was_ you who figured out how to get me out. So quit being stupid.”

“Are you-” Harry huffed a laugh as he pulled away from Ron. “You’re trying to make me feel better by calling me stupid?”

“Well, it’s true,” said Ron. “You’re being stupid. I bet if you stop, you’ll feel better.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Ron smiled back and then asked seriously, “Have you told Madame Pomfrey? About the nightmares? Maybe she’d give you more potion or something. She won’t give me anymore,” he complained. “Being all stingy. But you went through worse, so maybe…”

“No,” Harry shook his head, not meeting Ron’s eyes. He was glad his friends didn’t know all about the Dreamless Sleep debacle, and he’d rather keep it that way. “She’d just make me see a Mind Healer or something.”

Ron pulled a face.

“Exactly,” Harry agreed.

“Maybe…um, you should ask…” Ron swallowed and couldn’t hide the sour look on his face when he mumbled, “you know…S-Snape.”

Harry stared, and his lips quirked up in a smile. “How much did it hurt to say that?”

Ron slumped and let out a whoosh of air. “So much.”

He let out a laugh. “Do you mean it? _Yo_ u really think I ought to go to Snape with this?”

Ron shrugged with one shoulder. “No. Yes. I dunno. He’s a git, but I guess I don’t think he’ll kill you under Dumbledore’s watch. So long as he’s playing at being all nice and helpful, why not make him work for it and actually fix something?” He waved at Harry’s head, and Harry pulled a face.

“Way to treat me like a head case,” he griped, but he didn’t mean it. It helped, knowing his friends cared, even if he didn’t appreciate knowing they were talking about him behind his back.

He didn’t add that he didn’t want _Snape_ to treat him like a head case either. It had been a week since they’d started Occlumency lessons again - two per week, they’d decided - and the first two lessons had gone really, really well. Snape had asked about his nightmares both times and had seemed almost _proud_ of Harry for managing fine without the Dreamless Sleep Potion. He liked the feeling of Snape being proud of him. He didn’t want to mess it up with the truth. He sighed. “I’ve only been back a few weeks. It’ll get better soon, I swear. And- and if not, then I’ll…well, I’ll think about it. Yeah?”

Ron nodded slowly, like he doubted Harry really would ask for help but wasn’t going to harp on it. Not yet, anyway. Or maybe he would delegate that to Hermione. She was better at pestering him to do things. Ron preferred to sit back and suggest flying as the best therapy for any variety of ills. “It’s almost morning,” he said instead. “Want to get ready and head to the common room? We can beat the rest to breakfast.”

Harry nodded back and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, fully preparing to face the day. It’s not like he could go back to sleep anyway.

* * *

It was a typical Tuesday. His first and last classes of the day - Charms and Herbology - were fairly dull. He only wished DADA had been dull as well.

“Nicely done, Mr. Potter!” Brooks beamed after he demonstrated his Patronus Charm for the class, _again_. He smiled, or he tried to anyway, on his way back to his desk. One or two Slytherins were scowling at him, and several students of both houses wore smirks, and he knew he’d better nip Brooks’s blooming favoritism in the bud if he wanted any peace in Defense this year.

“Did everyone see how he held his wand? Excellent form. And a fully corporeal Patronus! Many grown wizards can’t even manage that, but if you practice, you may someday come close!”

On second thought, it might already be too late. He sank in his chair, cheeks red as a few snickers reached his ears. Unfortunately, Brooks had caught on to the fact that, despite the few snickers and scowls that Harry got for his trouble, he still commanded more respect than the professor did. Nobody passed notes or disrupted the class while Harry was up front - even Malfoy, surprisingly - and so Brooks began pulling him up more and more often. Harry hated it. The end of class couldn’t come soon enough, and he bolted out the door as quickly as he could, pretending not to hear Brooks call out his name.

So all in all, a typical Tuesday, but also an exhausting Tuesday. Harry and his friends joked around in between classes, and he was pretty sure even Ron thought his heart was in it. Hermione still watched him too closely, but she didn’t pester him, so he considered that a win. He made as much effort to eat plenty at mealtimes as he did to ignore his near-constant headache, and by the end of the day she was genuinely smiling in his direction. It was all so tiring that even though Occlumency required a lot of effort, he was glad that evening when the time for his lesson rolled around. So much so that he arrived a full ten minutes early.

“Wand out and on the desk,” directed Snape without preamble.

Harry closed the door and smiled. “Hello to you too.”

Snape waved his hand in the air as if to say that _hello_ was implied. “Today we will work on guarding your mind from external distraction.”

“Again?” Harry made his way to the front of the classroom and deposited his wand on the professor’s desk. He knew it was so that he could get used to being defenseless, but he thought it was kind of silly to give up his wand. It’s not like he was going to use it against Snape if he wasn’t supposed to.

“Yes, again. One can only progress so far in the mental arts by clearing one’s mind. Other skills must also be cultivated. Focus. Inner calm. Endurance. And so on. You have many skills and attributes that will serve you well, but you still lack a sufficient level of focus.”

“Inner calm sounds more fun to work on,” he observed with a raised eyebrow. “Light some candles, play some music, zone out a bit… Can I do that instead?”

Snape harrumphed. “Not quite the type of inner calm that shall serve you well when faced with mental invasion. But by all means, light as many candles as you wish, so long as you do it on your own time.”

“Maybe you should burn some candles too,” Harry suggested in an overly innocent tone. “Might help you relax.”

He smiled when Snape fixed him with a long-suffering stare and said, “Sit.”

Harry sat, and for the next hour and a half, he closed his eyes and cleared and fortified his mind while Snape’s wand threw at him a variety of distractions - voices chattering, then yelling at him; a strong wind that almost blew him off his chair; the clawing and snarling of a wild animal. He did fairly well up until the last one, when he couldn’t help opening his eyes wide. His heart pounded at the thought of being torn apart by a lion or tiger, even though he knew that it wasn’t real, and it completely broke his concentration. Snape made him try that one over and over, wanting him to get to point where he could effectively ignore it.

“Don’t see why I should,” he complained. “It’s not like I’d ignore something attacking me. If I did that for real, I’d be dead!”

“Yes,” agreed Snape, “but you must be able to see to the danger while simultaneously maintaining your shields. Maintaining it here amidst distraction is the first step. Once you have mastered that, we will graduate to multitasking and you can practice defending yourself against attack lions to your heart’s content.”

He tried his best to do as Snape said, because he’d much rather get on to learning how to defeat the danger than practicing how to ignore it. He thought he’d done pretty well, too, if not perfectly, for when they wrapped up, Snape had that satisfied look on his face that Harry had already started looking forward to seeing at the end of each lesson.

“Remember to practice clearing your mind every night before sleep,” Snape instructed. “At least once per day, also work on doing so in the midst of distraction. In your common room, perhaps. Or while listening to some of that obnoxious music your friends listen to.”

Harry nodded. “Or in class,” he said in mock seriousness.

“You will _not_ use Occlumency as an excuse to not pay attention in class,” clipped Snape, and Harry grinned at how easy the man was to rile up.

He stood and stretched, then eyed the cauldron and a few potions vials on Snape’s desk. “D’you need help?”

Snape made his way back to desk. “No. I finished earlier.”

“Oh.” He stood awkwardly. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to admit he didn’t want to go. Snape was too perceptive. Sooner or later he’d figure out that Harry was avoiding the Gryffindor common room because he was tired of pretending everything was fine in front of his friends, and avoiding his bedroom because he was tired of being afraid what would happen when he closed his eyes. Working with Snape was nice, because the professor let him set the pace. He didn’t seem to mind lately if Harry was in a talkative mood, and he also didn’t seem to mind if Harry simply wanted to be silent with his own thoughts for an hour or so. This would have been a silent night, he knew. His headache was worse, and he’d have a harder time hiding it if they kept on talking.

“You do realize that you are under no obligation to assist me?” said Snape, his head cocked to study Harry. “This is not an exchange of services. I require nothing in return for teaching you Occlumency.”

“Yeah. Of course. Yeah, I know. I just…” He shrugged. “It’s nice here. Calm. I like it.”

Snape smirked. “Gryffindor Tower is not the epitome of calm? I am truly shocked.”

Harry smiled as he made his way to the desk and pocketed his wand. “No. Uh…I mean, it’s calm after most people go to bed. But yeah…otherwise not so much.” He made no move to leave, even though he knew he should, and Snape fixed him with a probing stare. “You sure you don’t need any help?” He held in a cringe, hoping he didn’t sound as pathetic as he thought he did.

If he did sound pathetic, Snape’s face didn’t betray it. The professor merely waved a hand at the potions vials on his desk. “If you are so desperate to be useful, you may return these to their proper places. I trust you know where each one goes?”

Harry nodded eagerly and gathered up a few vials. It was only on his second trip into Snape’s private stores that his eyes were unavoidably drawn to the unassuming jar on the middle shelf that seemed to have developed a life of its own. He was getting used to the way his heart beat faster when he saw it, and to the images in his mind of simply pocketing it - it would be so easy - and brewing up the end to his nightmare-infested nights and tired, headache-filled days. Just one jar of adder’s fork, and he could brew up enough Dreamless Sleep Potion to last him at least two months. He knew - he had double checked the recipe.

He bit his lip and shook his head. No. Stealing from Snape…he couldn’t recover from that. Well, unless the man never found out…

He liked this, the way things were going, with Snape being proud of him for being strong and seemingly nightmare-free. He didn’t want Snape to find out that Harry was a head case who couldn’t get over the summer, who had developed a fear of the dark and jumped at loud noises. Snape had been through far worse, and he certainly didn’t stand around flinching or complaining about nightmares. He’d only tell Pomfrey, and they’d send him to a Mind Healer, and everybody would know that Harry Potter was broken.

He didn’t realize he had reached out to touch the bottle until he heard Snape calling for him from the other room, asking if he’d gotten lost. He jumped and fumbled for the jar as it toppled off the shelf, letting out a breath as he kept it from breaking. And…now it was in his hands. He breathed out in a whoosh, and in the next second, almost without thinking about it, the jar was secure in his pocket, hidden by the fabric of his robe, and he was walking quickly back into the classroom.

“Find everything alright?” Snape asked with a quirk of his eyebrow, and Harry thought he had never felt so sick to his stomach in his life. He had had a burst of temporary insanity, that’s what that was, and he had to put the jar back before Snape found out and decided he never wanted to speak to him again. He’d already violated the man’s trust twice. He was certain they wouldn’t survive a third time. What was that Muggle saying Dudley liked repeating? _Three strikes, you’re out._ He swallowed back a rise of panic.

“Uh…” he squeaked and cleared his throat. “I think I…I put something in the wrong place. I’ll just go move it-”

Snape waved a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. It will wait. I actually…” The man trailed off and fumbled with a small brown paper-covered package on the desk, as if he were nervous about something, and Harry might have wondered more about it if his life weren’t currently flashing before his eyes. “This is for you. To keep,” said Snape haltingly as he awkwardly shoved the package at Harry.

He took it automatically and tried to hide how his hands were shaking. Moving them to open the package seemed the best way.

“No,” Snape’s hand jerked up as if to stop him, then fell back to his side. He cleared his throat and busied himself with some papers on his desk. “Open it later. In your room.”

Harry nodded automatically, too relieved to worry about offending the man as he made a quick exit. He wasn’t even sure he had remembered to say thank you before he bolted from the classroom.

He barely acknowledged his friends’ greetings and he hurried through the common room, only saying enough to not worry them too much, and threw open the lid of his trunk as soon as he made it to his room - his empty room, thank Merlin. Without looking at it, he buried the offending jar in the farthest corner of his trunk, under a layer of odds and ends, and then closed the trunk and sat on it. He wouldn’t use it. He wouldn’t. He would bring it to his next lesson - hidden, of course - and he would bring it into Snape’s stores with him and replace it without Snape being the wiser. Surely the man didn’t use adder’s fork on a regular basis. He wouldn’t notice it was gone.

Because if he did, it was a very short mental leap to make to Harry, the only student with regular access to his stores, and the only one with a pressing need for a potion whose main ingredient was the ingredient that happened to be missing.

He let out a shaky breath. Only two days until Thursday. He could do this. He could act natural, and Snape wouldn’t notice, and then his mistake would be fixed and Snape would never know.

He didn’t realize he was still holding the package from Snape until the paper crinkled in his hands. Sighing, he moved to settle on his bed and slowly unwrapped it with fingers that were still shaking. He couldn’t imagine what his teacher would give him that he wouldn’t want opened in front of him. The paper fell away, revealing a small rectangular box with a hinge on one side. He carefully opened it and stared at its contents.

Glasses. Snape had given him glasses. Hands trembling for a different reason now, he ran his fingers reverently over the dark frame. It was almost identical to his current pair, only new and maybe a little wider. Probably meant for a teen or an adult, not the child’s glasses he still wore and hoped nobody could tell. He removed his glasses and carefully placed the new pair on his nose. They went in and out of focus for a couple seconds, and then the world swam into crystal clarity. His mouth fell open. Self-adjusting glasses! He stared in awe at the numerous wrinkles in his bed hangings and the small chips in the wood of the bed frame that he could see in minute detail. They swam out of focus for a different reason now, as his eyes welled up with tears.

He carefully replaced the glasses in the box, set it on his bedside table, threw himself onto his stomach on the bed, and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

Snores echoed through the room, but that wasn’t what woke him.

His guilty conscience woke him, for the third time tonight. Or at least, that’s what he assumed was the horrible nausea churning in his stomach, alongside the painful ache in his chest. His conscience was not very subtle.

He turned over, staring at the fuzzy outline of his bed hangings in the dark, his mind reviewing what a horrible, awful, terrible, no good human being he was. He had messed everything up. Even replacing the jar wouldn’t fix this, because he’d always _know_ that he’d betrayed Snape, even if Snape himself never found out. And then Snape had to go and give him something his own relatives hadn’t cared to give him, and his friends hadn’t noticed he needed, and it was one of the best presents he’d ever got, and…and…he was a horrible, awful, terrible, no good human being. He sniffed.

He couldn’t accept the glasses. Every time he wore them, he’d think about how Snape wouldn’t have given them to him if he’d known what sort of person Harry’d turned out to be. If he knew, he’d kick Harry to the curb. He’d never talk to him again, just like before, except far worse because Harry would know he was back to hating him again.

Because three strikes, you’re out.

He shuddered and curled up on his side. He closed his eyes but knew that this time, sleep wouldn’t come. It served him right, he decided. This had all started because he wanted to get rid of nightmares. Well, if he was cursed to sleepless nights for the rest of his life in penance, it was only fair.

Three strikes, you’re out.

He curled up tighter, but the words kept repeating, over and over, through his head.

_Three strikes, you’re out._

_Three strikes, you’re out._

_Three strikes, you’re out._

He felt a tingling in his fingers, and he opened his eyes to see a spark drifting upward, then another- No! He bolted upright and out of his bed, putting on his glasses - _his_ pair, old as they were - on the way to his trunk. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t. He couldn’t live like this until Thursday, stomach churning over whether Snape would find out, heart pounding in horrible anticipation for the man to declare he was done with Harry forever, not to mention worried that at any minute he was going to lose control of his magic like he was losing control of his mind. If it was over, then he had to know it was over. What was a little curfew breaking and professor hassling to the looming demise of any trust he’d built up with his professor over the longest summer of his life?

He quickly and silently emptied his book bag and filled it with the glasses case and potions jar, then grabbed his invisibility cloak. He put on shoes but didn’t bother to change out of the pajamas he had only changed into about an hour earlier. The Tower was silent and the Fat Lady merely yawned as he made his way out and down the maze of corridors until after an eternity - and far, far too soon - he made it to the dungeons and turned the corner to the Potions hallway. He stood in front of Snape’s office for another eternity while he considered his next move. He realized that he didn’t know where Snape’s private quarters were, and even if he did, what was the plan? To knock down the door and demand the man wake from his sleep to hear a confession that was going to make him hate Harry again?

He removed the invisibility cloak and stuffed it in the book bag, then sank down against the door, legs drawn up, bag cradled to his chest. He could wait out here until morning, he supposed. Snape was an early riser; surely he would be the first to venture down the hallway. But what if he wasn’t..?

He shivered. It was cold at night in the dungeons. He should have brought a coat. He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in the bag. But that was too uncomfortable to last, and he finally raised his head and stared at his right hand. Well. He was screwed anyway. May as well give Snape as many reasons to be angry with him as possible, he thought numbly as he pressed his thumb to the small gold ring and felt it heat up on his finger.

It only took a few seconds. He heard the bang of a door slamming open, and he whipped his head to the side, watching as his professor barreled out an open door at the end of the corridor. So that was where Snape’s quarters were, he thought in a strange, detached sort of way. He didn’t feel quite so detached the instant after Snape saw him. Before he could brace himself, the man was upon him, and he was squinting into the bright end of a lit wand. Hands were on his face, checking his scar and his scalp for injuries, and Snape was saying something, but Harry couldn’t tell what over the pounding of his heart in his ears, only that his voice sounded worried.

Harry tried to say he was okay, but it came out as a sob. He shoved the hands away and pushed to his feet. Snape wouldn’t want to worry over him if he knew.

A frantic “Harry” made it through his pounding ears, and that brought him to himself. Snape called him _Harr_ y sometimes, and he liked it when he did, and that was the very worst thing for him to call him right now, when he was about to find out what a horrible, awful, terrible, no good human being Harry was. There really was no reason to put it off any longer, he knew, and he opened the bag with shaking hands and shoved the jar of adder’s fork into Snape’s chest. The man’s hands caught it, and Harry couldn’t meet his eyes, but he knew when Snape realized what it was, for his body went completely still.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and it occurred to him that if by some miracle Snape weren’t completely disgusted by Harry’s stealing, he most definitely would be at the soggy, snotty mess he was making of himself. Or that he’d lost the first gift he’d given to him. The confession poured out of his lips. “And I l-lost the stone. My mum’s s-stone, the-the one you gave me.”

He kept his eyes focused on the man’s long gray nightshirt and his hands where they gripped the jar, so when after a full minute, the man’s hand reached out, he flinched back. The hand paused, then reached out again. Firm fingers curled around his arm, propelling him down the hallway. He was certain he was being taken to the headmaster’s office until they reached the open door at the end of the hallway and Harry halted in his tracks. There was no way he was allowed to step foot in a professor’s private quarters.

“Go in,” Snape said quietly and pushed with a hand on his back, and Harry found himself in a small sitting room, furnished by a worn green sofa, a reading chair, and a large bookshelf. He was shoved onto the sofa, and the man disappeared through another door.

He took advantage of Snape’s absence to try to stop crying, drawing in several shallow, gasping breaths. He jumped as Snape abruptly returned through the door and placed a pillow on the end of the sofa, then handed Harry a blanket.

He looked up at Snape dumbly. He couldn’t tell a thing the professor was thinking, his spy mask firmly in place, and he croaked out, “I- I don’t…what..?”

“Are you injured? Hurt?” asked the professor softly, and Harry shook his head mutely. “Then sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He then moved back to the door, and Harry bolted to his feet. “No! No, I-I need-” he cut himself off, because he really wasn’t in a position to demand what he needed, was he? “Please,” he pleaded, “just tell me now.”

Snape watched him with an inscrutable expression. “Tell you what?”

Harry furiously wiped at his face. “You- You know what. I- I’m so sorry. I know I…and you’re probably…and I deserve it, I know. If- if you want to stop t-teaching me. And-” and hate me, and ignore me forever, he mentally added but couldn’t say out loud. He was pretty sure his miserable face said it for him.

Snape breathed in deeply and let it out, and Harry counted himself fortunate that the man was at least calming himself before laying into him. He forced himself to not flinch as Snape rounded the sofa, even when he didn’t stop. Before Harry quite knew what had happened, his snot-filled nose was pressed up against Snape’s shoulder, and strong arms were pinning him in place.

They stood still, both of them barely breathing, and Harry was positive this must feel as awkward for Snape as it did for him. He finally managed to stutter, “W-what is this?”

“A hug,” said Snape stiffly. “They...provide comfort.”

It was probably a good thing that Harry was so distraught, because under any other circumstances he might have laughed. Snape sounded like he was explaining a foreign concept - which hugs probably were to him - or like he'd stumbled upon a parenting book and decided in a purely clinical way to put one of the concepts into practice.

Snape stiffened and began to pull away, and Harry quickly wrapped his arms tightly around the man’s back, forcing him to stay. This was one of the most uncomfortable hugs he’d ever received, and it was one of the best, and he wasn’t ready to have it taken away. He closed his eyes and buried his head in the gray fabric covering his professor’s shoulder, not caring that his glasses were digging into his skin. He was crying again, but it was the quiet, shuddering kind, and Snape relaxed into the hug instead of pulling away, and it was more comfortable now, so Harry held on. He still felt awful, but he felt a deep relief too, because surely Snape wouldn’t bother to comfort him if he were getting ready to kick him to the curb. He had hope now that maybe he hadn’t ruined everything after all, and he clutched at the man even tighter. Only when he was no longer crying and his shudders were few and far between did he realize that Snape was going to wait for him to pull away, and he reluctantly let go and stepped back, wiping his face as he did so.

He glanced at Snape, but the man didn’t give him time to be embarrassed. He pushed him gently onto the sofa and covered him with the blanket. “Sleep,” he repeated in a low voice. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He plucked off Harry’s glasses and barely touched his fringe, then dimmed the light on his way out.

Harry curled up, toeing off his shoes as he hiccupped and breathed in the scent of potions and books that lingered in the air. His eyes fluttered closed, and he had the brief thought that all that crying was good for something, as he drifted off to sleep almost immediately.


	55. Home Sweet Home

He was drowning. He had no idea how he came to be into the lake, only that he was drowning and there were faces on the shore, but no matter how many times he called out to them, they wouldn’t move to help him. He saw Ron and waved, trying to get his attention, and his friend turned and—

He froze. It wasn’t Ron. It was Wormtail. The short man’s grubby face sneered at him, and he recoiled, falling below the surface. He flailed, trying to stay upright, trying to keep his head above water. The water was red. Blood. He gasped, tried to get out without swallowing any, and he sputtered, feeling ill when he tried to figure out why the lake was filled with blood.

A hand encircled his arm, and he grabbed at it, making a choking noise that he hoped conveyed that he needed help, needed to be taken to shore, before it tightened and he realized it was trying to pull him under. He tried to get away but it wouldn’t let go, and he was drowning and panicking and—

“…be okay, Harry,” said Snape, and he took a gasping breath and searched the faces on the shore, but he couldn’t find his professor, and he was sinking again, and he scrabbled at the hand, breath coming in pants, before Snape’s voice murmured, “ _somnium pace_ ,” and he had enough time to wonder if it was a curse, if he was going to die under the water, before the lake ebbed away and he was near dry land and the faces on the shore drifted away and his mind retreated into the peaceful nothingness of nightmare-free sleep.

The next time he came to any sort of awareness, it was to a pleasant warmth and a low crackling of fire. He stretched and yawned, lingering in the fuzzy almost-awareness of a peaceful night’s sleep. He felt rested, and he hardly ever felt rested these days, and he burrowed deeper under his blanket, trying to hold on to the nice feeling for as long as possible. Despite his best efforts, his mind drifted further and further toward alertness until he had little choice but to blink his eyes open into the quiet room.

Why _was_ it so quiet? Had he overslept? He was still wondering why Ron had left for breakfast without him when he registered the barely familiar room in which he found himself.

He bolted upright as the events of last night came to him all at once. A quick survey of the room confirmed that he was alone, and he dropped his face into his hands, groaning at the memories. Snape must be livid. Sure, he hadn’t _seemed_ angry last night, but now that he’d had time to process, time to think through what Harry had done, there was no way everything could go back to how they’d been before, was there? Snape had _trusted_ him. In his _private stores_ , something he trusted almost no one to access alone, and he had trusted Harry. And then Harry had disturbed his sleep only to leak tears and snot all over his night shirt. He took a bracing breath and looked around the room to distract from his depressing thoughts.

The room was quite small and even cozy, and yet managed to be very…Snape. The green sofa he sat upon was opposite a worn brown reading chair. A low table sat between them, and several books were piled atop a smaller table next to the chair. There was no decor on the walls, save for a clock that Harry was certain told perfect time—surely Snape wouldn’t allow a clock to be so much as one second fast in his quarters—which hung over a small stone fireplace. The fire, a pair of dim mismatched lamps, and the colorful spines of the books on a pair of overflowing bookshelves provided the only bit of brightness in the room.

His attention was caught by a piece of paper on the table between the chair and sofa. He leaned forward and, seeing that it was addressed to him, grasped it nervously.

_Harry,_

_I am in class. Wait for my return. Confine yourself to the sitting room and the facilities, first door on the right. You will find a toothbrush and a change of clothes and may shower if you wish. Call a house-elf to provide breakfast. I believe your Dobby is in residence._

_You have been excused from Herbology._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor S. Snape_

That wasn’t so bad, he thought even as he tried to calm himself at the thought of the conversation they’d be having once Snape returned. He traced his finger over the _Harry_. Snape had called him by his given name a few times, but he’d never before put it into writing. There was something about seeing it on the top of the letter that felt so…deliberate. Not like a casual slip of the tongue, but like it meant something. Like Snape _knew_ it meant something. Surely Snape wouldn’t have addressed the note so casually if he were furious. He set down the note, slightly reassured, and carefully straightened the sofa and folded the blanket.

He found the loo, no problem, and though it was modest in size, he was fascinated by every detail, from the large porcelain bathtub to the fact that Snape’s toothbrush was red. It was such an inconsequential detail, and yet knowing that Snape used a Gryffindor-colored toothbrush made him itch to give him a hard time about it.

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t overstep again. He resisted the urge to glance into the cabinet or to even look around longer than he already had. Snape, for some unknown reason, was trusting him in his personal, private quarters after finding out only hours ago that Harry hadn’t been at all trustworthy in his office. He showered as quickly as possible and changed into a shirt, a pair of tan trousers, and a red jumper that had been neatly folded alongside a towel next to the sink. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how Snape had managed to retrieve his clothes, down to a pair of socks and pants, so he decided to not think about it.

He nervously shifted from one foot to the other when he returned to the sitting room. Snape was teaching Sixth year Potions right now. Harry knew, because he and Ron had a free period on Wednesday mornings before Herbology, and Hermione was always happy for the brightness and fresh air of the Herbology classroom after having spent her previous class in the dungeons. Snape wouldn’t be back for at least twenty minutes, and now that he was faced with talking to his teacher in the light of day—figuratively, of course, as there were no windows—he wasn’t so thrilled to be excused from Herbology. Having to go to class would be a rather convenient excuse to put off any discussion of what Harry’s punishment might be.

He sat on the sofa and tapped his fingers against his legs. He didn’t think he could eat, but Snape had told him to summon a house-elf. He might be angry if Harry didn’t do as he was told, and Harry didn’t want to do anything that might make him angry… _more_ angry.

“Dobby?” he called, hopeful that the familiar face might at least distract him from the terrible waiting.

The little house-elf appeared with a pop, and he immediately jumped, squeaked, and cast adoring eyes on Harry. “Harry Potter! Dobby is happy to see Harry Potter again! Dobby is hearing terrible things…” His ears drooped, even under a small tower of hats, and he said mournfully, “Dobby hears how Harry Potter was disappearing, sir, and taken by evil wizards. But,” the house-elf perked up, “He is back, and not sick, and Dobby is so happy, sir!”

Harry grinned. “Thanks, Dobby.”

“Dobby should bring food?” asked Dobby hopefully. “Professor Snape is telling Dobby to feed Harry Potter, sir.”

Harry scrunched up his nose, but he figured he’d better eat _something_ , and within minutes of being sent for food, Dobby had returned with a plate piled high with eggs, sausage, bacon, potatoes, beans, fruit, and toast. It made his stomach turn, to be honest, but he settled on the floor next to the table and shoveled some eggs into his mouth. He wondered if Snape had broken some rule by letting him stay, and he wondered if his friends were worried about him. He had too many questions, and he wasn’t sure they really even mattered right now.

“So you left Grimmauld Place?” he asked Dobby, who was happily delivering a glass of pumpkin juice.

Dobby nodded his head so fast that one hat fell from the top, but the little elf deftly picked it up and held it in his hands. “Dobby is wanting to live where Harry Potter lives. He is a hero who is freeing Dobby and punishing bad wizards.”

Harry flushed, still caught off guard sometimes by the house-elf’s hero worship. “Er. Okay. So…” he sipped his juice and took another quick look around. “Have you been to Professor Snape’s quarters before?”

Dobby nodded. “The house-elves is happy to clean for Professor Snape. He is never leaving socks on the floor.”

Harry snorted. He believed it. The professor was so exacting, he probably had a strict sorting system for his laundry. On the other hand, he considered, the bookshelves were overflowing, with books stacked on the floor in crooked piles. So maybe Snape wasn’t meticulous in _every_ area.

Now that he was in his professor’s private quarters, he found himself more curious than ever about the man. But, as curiosity sounded like just the thing to get him into trouble, he studiously focused on chewing a bite of sausage. Fortunately, Dobby was happy to chat with him about anything he could think of asking, until far too soon, they were interrupted by the click of an opening door.

Harry stiffened and took another sip of pumpkin juice to have an excuse to not look up.

“You ate. Good,” was all that Snape said as he entered the room. He could feel the man’s gaze, so he reluctantly set down the glass and glanced up. The professor eyed him with an unreadable look, but Harry couldn’t hold his gaze. His eyes dropped to his plate and he nervously nibbled at a piece of toast. Snape didn’t comment, only said dismissively, “Dobby, you may go,” and removed his teaching robes, hanging them on a hook Harry hadn’t noticed on the wall by the door, then sat in the chair opposite Harry.

Dobby cast a furtive glance at Snape and quickly threw himself at Harry, squeezing his arms around his body in a parting hug. Harry gave the elf a wobbly smile before he Apparated away.

The room was silent for several minutes, and as nervous as Harry was, he wasn’t about to be the one to break it. He continued to nibble on his food and tried to hide the tremor in his fingers.

He jumped when Snape finally cleared his throat and said, “I see you found the facilities.”

He nodded.

“Good.” Another minute went by, and Snape abruptly motioned at Harry’s hand. “The ring? If I may.”

It took him a moment to register the request, but when Harry did, a chill swept through him. Snape wanted the ring back. Of course he did. He wouldn’t want Harry to keep it now, would he? Not when he couldn’t trust him. _Three strikes, you’re out._ He woodenly removed the ring from his finger and handed it over. He watched as the professor aimed his wand at it and muttered a few spells under his breath. Removing the charms that tied it to Harry, no doubt. He swallowed hard and studied his plate. Sausages were disgusting, he decided. As were toast and eggs. How he had managed to eat any of it mere minutes ago, he didn’t know.

Without looking up from the ring, Snape cleared his throat and asked evenly, “Is there anything you wish to add to your confession of last night? Before we begin.”

Harry gulped. _Before we begin_ sounded so ominous. And the way Snape outright asked for a confession made him feel like a spotlight had come out of the ceiling and fixed on him, and he wondered what else the man thought he might have done. It hadn’t occurred to him that Snape might think that stealing the adder’s fork was only the tip of the iceberg, and he felt a sinking feeling that the professor would be quite justified in thinking it. He tossed the remnants of his toast on the plate and mutely shook his head. He couldn’t stomach even trying to pretend interest in food anymore. He felt like a criminal.

“I’ve spoken with the headmaster—”

“He knows?” Harry squeaked, looking up in alarm.

“Of course,” answered Snape with a lift of his eyebrows. “He is responsible for the wellbeing of all Hogwarts students and has a particular interest in seeing to your safety.” Harry didn’t bother to hide his mortification. It was surely written all over his face as Snape went on. “Madame Pomfrey will make arrangements for a Mind Healer. You will be informed of the time.”

Harry froze. He didn’t want to go to a Mind Healer, obviously, but even more than that, he didn’t want to be shoved off on one so that Snape wouldn’t have to deal with him. Not that he blamed the man for not wanting anything to do with him, but the thought made him feel empty inside. No, not empty. Hollowed out, like a pumpkin right before Halloween. And not the funny or happy-looking kind. The droopy, sad-looking, about-to-be-tossed-out kind.

Snape was still talking, and Harry tuned in mid-sentence. “…be served with Professor McGonagall—”

“Huh?” he croaked, finally interrupting. “Sorry. Serve…serve what?”

“Your detention. I believe a consequence is appropriate, despite the circumstances, albeit a minimal one.”

Of course. He should be happy to only be escaping with a detention, not expulsion. Well, detention and being offloaded off by Snape onto McGonagall and a Mind Healer. He felt sick. He knew he shouldn’t have eaten the eggs. He hadn’t even been hungry for the stupid eggs!

His mind barely registered Snape’s moving toward him before he flinched violently, hitting his ankle against the leg of the table, and Merlin did that hurt! Snape drew back, and Harry registered his face, like he had been slapped, at the same time that he realized the professor had been reaching for Harry’s empty plate, He jumped to his feet, pausing only to rub his aching ankle. “Sorry,” he blurted. “It’s not like I thought you— I mean, you wouldn’t. I only…it’s just—” he gave up and repeated, “Sorry.” He hadn’t meant to flinch, certainly didn’t expect Snape to _do_ anything to him, not even after last night, but his mind was filled with uncertainty, which was making him jumpy, and and— “Can I go?” Maybe he could still make the last half of Herbology. Or not. Not, probably. The Room of Requirement was sounding like a better place to spend the rest of his morning. Or the rest of his life. Between the room’s magic and Dobby’s help, he could probably create a comfortable little home for himself.

Snape slowly stood, eyeing him uncertainly. “Do you not wish to talk?”

“Um. Mind Healer. Detention. I got it. I won’t do it again, I promise. And…and I’ll stay out of your hair.” He picked up his bag and began inching toward the door, one hundred percent regretting confessing to Snape last night. No, that was a lie. He was only about ninety percent regretting it. He knew it would have only continued to weigh on him if he hadn’t. It had seemed so important, something that couldn’t wait, and now he wanted to be anywhere other than here.

“Stop,” said Snape softly, pointing at the sofa. “Sit.”

“I really—”

“Sit.” Snape’s tone was gentle but firm, and seeing no way out of it, he sat, unable to drum up the effort to keep his misery off his face.

Snape collapsed into his own chair and drew a hand across his face. Whatever shields he’d had up before seemed to crumble, and Harry could see the tiredness in his eyes. “I am making a mess of this, aren’t I?” he asked, though it was obviously meant as a rhetorical question, as he didn’t wait for a response. “I don’t know how to do this, you know.” He threw out his hands, frustration in the lines of his face. “I know how to brew, how to teach, and to discipline. I know how to maneuver as a spy and how to uncover relevant information. I do not know how to _help_ a traumatized sixteen-year old boy!” He leaned back with a huff and brought a hand up to rub at his temples.

Harry swallowed and his hands fidgeted in his lap. He wanted to ask what sort of help Snape was talking about wanting to give, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to speak at all. Maybe if he stayed silent, sank back into the sofa cushions, Snape would eventually forget he was there. Like a ghost.

“I don’t suppose you’d be able to assist me here?” Snape said with a huffed laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all, and glanced up at Harry with a wry look. “Tell me what you need from me?”

Harry bit his lip. “You don’t have to—”

“I _want_ to. I believe we’ve established that.” He shook his head and stood, beginning to pace. “You weren’t supposed to get under my skin, not like this. But you have!” he barked, almost accusingly but at the same time…not. “You’re not merely _Potter_ anymore, and not only… _his_ son. Hers, yes, but not only hers either. You’re…more.” He gestured with agitated hands. “You’re…you’re _you_ , and I wasn’t supposed to _see_ you, or to care to this extent. About anything, really, but especially not about you! Do you have any idea what it is to worry, to finally understand the concept of a child having the capacity to turn one’s hair gray merely by existing in a less than safe world?”

He paused as if for an answer, so Harry obediently shook his head no, watching his professor with wide eyes.

“Well, I do!” Snape threw up his hands and sagged against the wall. “I do now,” he repeated more quietly and met Harry’s gaze. He stared for several breaths before saying, “I will not abandon you. I should have led with that. Or discussed my plans for expanded lessons, to include evening Occlumency techniques, as well as non-addictive sleep aids that you can try. Perhaps assured you that I am not angry. That would have been preferable. Put you at ease?”

Harry opened his mouth but couldn’t think what to say. Snape was asking _him_? For advice in how to talk to him? He didn’t think an adult had ever asked him such a thing. But…that pit in his stomach wasn’t quite so heavy anymore, and his chest felt lighter. It was easier to breathe. He let out a breath as if to test it out and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. All of it. Do that next time.” His heart skipped a beat and he added quickly, “Not that I’m planning a next time! I’m not, I swear.”

“I know,” said Snape, not looking away. He seemed calmer now, less agitated. “I know you. Better than before, at any rate. You do not always exercise perfect judgment, but you are not cruel or self-serving. You are…suffering. Desperate. Believe it or not, I am familiar with both concepts.”

Harry swallowed at the unexpected understanding in Snape’s gaze, and he averted his eyes to blink away a rush of almost-tears. Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked Snape as the man came closer and held out the ring to him. He took it automatically and looked at it questioningly.

“I have altered the charm. Press the ring for three continuous seconds if you are in danger. Tap it three times should you require assistance but are not in mortal peril. I may live longer if we can keep the heart attacks to a minimum.”

That might have been Snape’s attempt at lightening the mood, he thought, but he was too busy rolling the ring over between his fingers to respond. He didn’t know when exactly he had started to feel safer with the ring on his finger, but he definitely felt its lack now. He slipped it on and twisted it around to study the small engraved vines. “Is it…” he looked up to gauge Snape’s mood, whether it was okay to ask a random question, and went ahead at Snape’s nod. “Is it really a family heirloom? Like You-Know-Who said?”

“More or less,” said Snape noncommittally.

“Oh,” Harry said quietly and looked away.

Snape sat back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the armrest. After a moment, he relented. “Yes. My mother was descended from a pureblood family. She…” He averted his gaze. “My mother forfeited her inheritance when she married a Muggle. This ring was one of the few items that belonged to her—and then to me—by birthright, regardless of inheritance law.”

Harry watched Snape with interest. He was always fascinated when the man volunteered more information than he had to, and it almost never happened when the topic was his own past. “Do you…I mean, are you sure you want me to hold on to it? If it’s worth something…”

“Keep it,” said Snape without hesitation. “The charm will not be as effective on an item with less magical tie to me. And besides…” He hesitated, and his cheeks flushed as he resolutely studied the fireplace. “I’ve no…family of my own to leave it to.”

Harry politely looked away, twisting the ring around and around his finger. He could hear what Snape implied but left unsaid, that he was giving Harry something that would have gone to his own son if he’d had one, and the longer he dwelt on that thought, the more overwhelmed he felt. It was a good kind of overwhelmed though, like a big warm blanket on the inside, so he tried to memorize the feeling for later, for when he was feeling down or scared and needed something pleasant to bring him out of it.

“I am not angry,” Snape said firmly, bringing the conversation back around. “Not at you, at any rate. I should have noticed, should have realized that you were handling it _too_ well. I was overconfident. Also….distracted.” He ghosted a hand over his sleeve, then returned his fingers to drumming. “I do not wish to overlook such things again, and yet I know that one cannot force a confidence. Either you trust me enough to confide in me, or you do not. Perhaps a Mind Healer will—”

“I do trust you,” said Harry quickly, and at Snape’s grimace, insisted firmly, “I do. I came here in the middle of the night, didn’t I? I know I didn’t come to you before, but…well, it’s not because I don’t trust you, okay? I just…I—” He hesitated, then forced himself to admit, “I didn’t want to disappoint you.” Snape’s furrowed brow betrayed his confusion, and Harry explained, “You seemed so proud of me, of my progress. I…well, I—I liked it.” He ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. “It was nice, for once, having somebody—having you—be proud of me, and I didn’t want to lose it. It’s dumb, I know, but I swear it wasn’t that I don’t trust you.”

After a few beats of silence, Snape murmured, “It is not…‘dumb.’” He didn’t say anything more and looked like maybe he was a bit overwhelmed too.

“Um, about the Mind Healer,” Harry said tentatively. “Can I…not?”

He could tell by Snape’s expression that he wasn’t going to like the man’s answer, so he held up his hands. “Just hear me out! I’m not saying no, like I’ll never go. I mean, maybe it’s a good thing down the road, I dunno. I’ve been through a lot, yeah, okay. But I’ve also got lots of people looking out for me. Ron and Hermione both knew I wasn’t doing so well, and even Ron said I should go to you. _Ron!_ Yeah, I know,” he said in agreement at Snape’s highly raised eyebrows. “The Quidditch team is great, and they all watch my back when I’m in the air, and my friends in Gryffindor, they have my back on the ground. And I’m pretty sure you’re going to be watching me like a hawk all the time now, whether I like it or not, and my point is that I’ve got _people_. I’m not alone, and I don’t feel alone, and maybe you and Dumbledore could give me a chance to see how things go with those Occlumency techniques and sleeping aids you were talking about before throwing me at one more stranger who doesn’t know anything about me except my name and how my parents died!” He was talking fast by now, trying to get it all out, and took a breath. “Just give me a chance first? Please? I can do it, I swear, and if I can’t, I’ll tell you this time, because we saw how well it went when I didn’t.” He half-heartedly rolled his eyes. “And down the road, if you want me to see somebody, I will. Just, for now…please?”

He watched Snape expectantly as the man considered his words. He knew the moment he won, because Snape gave a little half sigh and said, “Your word. You come to me. And if you don’t, or if I have the slightest suspicion that you are having difficulty with anything—anything at all—and decide you need a…more professional hand, you will go. Without complaint.”

Harry nodded, then stopped to consider. “Well. I can’t promise the without complaint part. But I promise the rest.”

Snape quirked his lips. “I accept your revision to the terms.” He held out a hand. Harry grinned and shook it. Before letting go, Snape added, “And you will still serve a detention.”

“With you,” Harry negotiated.

Snape shook his head. “You will be spending enough evenings in my classroom as it is. I think it better to delegate disciplinary activities so as to not further disrupt the Occlumency teacher-student relationship. For the near future, at least.”

“Oh,” said Harry, surprised. “That’s why you assigned it with Professor McGonagall?”

“Yes. Are we in agreement?”

Harry pursed his lips, then gave a decisive nod. “Yes.”

“Good.” Snape shook his hand firmly and let go. No sooner had they both settled back into their seats, than Snape waved a hand and directed, “Talk.”

“Huh?”

“We made an agreement. You will not be compelled to see a Mind Healer, with the understanding that you trust me enough by now to confide in me. So talk.”

“Talk…um. Okay.” Harry bit his lip. He had no idea what Snape wanted him to talk about, or even what he himself wanted to talk about. Snape already knew about the nightmares, already knew he was having trouble dealing with them. He really didn’t think that discussing every detail of his dreams was going to help him, not that Snape would be interested in hearing every detail anyway. “I saw the sparks again,” he settled on, as that seemed like a big deal.

“The sparks,” Snape repeated, prodding for more.

“Yeah. The magic? I think I see the magic around me whenever I’m feeling out of sorts, when I’m reaching for it without meaning to. And I’ve been really jumpy lately, and I’m sure it’s ‘cause I’m not sleeping enough, but I’m always worried about next time I see them. Maybe it’ll be like the Quidditch pitch again, you know?”

Snape tapped a finger on his chin. “Did you attempt Occlumency? You seemed to have success directing the magic inward.”

He shook his head. “Not this time. I didn’t need to. It didn’t get that bad.”

“We will continue to work on that in our lessons. And if you feel about to lose control again, use the ring. I will coach you through it.”

He nodded and tugged the corners of his mouth into a grin. “The heart attack signal?”

“Yes,” Snape agreed, completely serious. “Without a doubt, use the heart attack signal.”

They fell silent while Harry tried to think of anything else he wanted to talk about, but he thought that maybe he was alright for now. Snape was going to help him, and that right there eased plenty of his worries. He could only think of one thing…

He cleared his throat. “Could I… I wonder if I could maybe ask a favor?”

Snape inclined his head.

“A big favor,” Harry added, and Snape quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. “I just…wondered if maybe you could take me back to Kneader’s sometime? I never got a chance to say goodbye to Hunter. The snake,” he clarified, trying to remember if he’d ever told Snape his name. “It’s only, he was my friend, and he saw me get taken, and he tried to help, and he’s probably been really worried about me, not knowing what happened. Nobody else can tell him I’m okay, you know..?” He shrugged, feeling silly for requesting such a thing. It seemed important though. Hunter deserved better. “And I think it’d make me feel better too,” he added, because it had the benefit of being both true and useful in getting his way. “It’s peaceful there, and it’s nice talking to him.”

To his pleasant surprise, Snape easily agreed. “I will speak to the headmaster. I am certain we can arrange a weekend visit.”

Harry smiled as another weight lifted off his chest. There was really only one other thing he wanted to know. “So…am I allowed to be in here?” He took in his professor’s sitting room with fresh eyes, twisting around now that he was more relaxed and no longer worried about being tossed out of the man’s life.

Snape seemed fine with the lighter turn in conversation. “Technically? No. In general, professorial quarters are restricted from students. But I knew the headmaster would allow an exception. He has given me a considerable amount of latitude in how I choose to deal with you.”

Harry almost asked why. Because of the prophecy? Because Snape was teaching him Occlumency? Because he’d been friends with Harry’s mum? Probably all of the above and more. He supposed he already knew enough to not need to ask. Dumbledore had made it obvious that he wanted Snape and Harry to get along, and it was no secret between the three of them that the headmaster was pleased with the progress they’d made over the sumer. Harry found he was not at all surprised that Dumbledore would allow certain liberties in order to encourage them on that path.

And anyway, now he was distracted by the vast number of books on the bookshelves behind the sofa and the stacks of books on the floor nearby.

“Looks like you need another bookshelf,” he observed.

Snape smirked. “That or I need to reduce my collection. I keep intending to, and then I purchase more…” He waved a hand as if to explain that that is the way it goes.

Harry grinned. Snape sounded so _human_ , here in his living quarters with his admission to not being perfectly neat and orderly in at least this one area. He found that he quite liked seeing his professor this way, comfortable without his teaching robes, sitting in a well-worn armchair and talking to him while several books littered the small table beside him. Snape seemed comfortable here in his home in a way he hadn’t at Grimmauld Place. Even in the midst of present circumstances, Harry could see a slight difference in Snape’s posture, a relaxing of the lines on his face. It occurred to Harry, not quite for the first time, that Snape wasn’t really all that old, was he? Old, yes, but not _old_. The young kind of old. Or the old kind of young? Whatever. Young enough to not worry about going gray yet, with or without Harry in the mix.

“I spoke to Professor McGonagall this morning,” Snape’s deceptively mild voice interrupted his thoughts. “I inquired about your progress. She indicated that you were caught up in your Transfiguration studies but did not seem to know how you fared in your other classes.”

Well, Snape could forget about whatever scolding he had in mind, Harry thought, because he finally had some good news to share. “All caught up! I even turned in a huge Herbology essay yesterday. Although…I mean, I’ll need to get today’s—”

Snape smoothly reached into his pocket and handed over a small piece of parchment. It contained a new Herbology assignment, along with instructions to review his friends’ notes from today’s class. Harry grinned. Of course it did. Snape had probably hounded Professor Sprout for the assignment the minute he’d decided to excuse Harry from class.

“Well. Got that taken care of then.” He shoved the assignment into his book bag.

“While I am pleased to hear that you have caught up to your classmates,” Snape crossed his arms and said in his soft, borderline dangerous voice, “you failed to inform your Head of House of your progress…why, exactly?”

Harry’s grin fell at the shift in mood, and he fidgeted under the professor’s stare. “Um. ‘Cause I didn’t know I was supposed to?” he asked uncertainly.

Snape let out a breath of exasperation. “How else is she to monitor your progress?”

“Uh…” Harry scratched an itchy spot on his cheek. “I didn’t know she was…um, monitoring my progress..? Really!” he insisted when Snape gave him a _look._ “She only talked to me about it that first week, then she told Hermione to help me. She didn’t say anything about me telling her when I’d finished, or I would’ve. I swear!”

Snape uncrossed his arms and pursed his lips like he’d eaten something sour. “Once? She spoke to you about your studies _once_?”

“Er…yeah?”

Snape sniffed and muttered something under his breath about _Head of House_ and _have words._

Harry shifted, not certain if he was in trouble or if maybe he’d gotten his Head of House in some sort of trouble. Not that McGonagall couldn’t hold her own against Snape. She most certainly could. Before he could worry too much over it, Snape was asking, “And are you encountering any difficulties in your studies?” He added darkly, “Since your Head of House has apparently yet to inquire.”

Harry scratched his cheek again, just to have something to do with his hands while under Snape’s scrutiny. “Uh…no?”

Snape sat back, crossed his arms, and waited.

And, okay, Harry didn’t have a choice, then. Snape didn’t need Legilimency skills in order to be able to wring confessions out of students. “Uh, Herbology’s more challenging this year, but nothing too bad. Not Ron’s favorite, but then none of our classes are really Ron’s favorite. Hermione loves ‘em all, so it balances out…” He cleared his throat at Snape’s raised eyebrow and got back on track. “Charms was the toughest to catch up on, ‘cause Professor Flitwick didn’t even have the decency to start with a review of last year, but he says I’m doing fine considering what I missed. History of Magic, is…well, it’s boring.” He shrugged. “But I’m doing the work.”

“And Defense?” Snape prodded after Harry fell silent.

“Oh, it’s…good. You know,” he answered vaguely, “I’m caught up and we’re learning some new defensive spells next week.” He was proud of the fact that he kept his mild annoyance with Brooks off his face, but Snape knew him too well by now. His eyes were already narrowing. Harry beat him to the punch. “You know, it wasn’t very nice of you to embarrass Professor Brooks in front of a student that day,” he pointed out. “Just because he’s a new teacher and you were in a mood, you didn’t have to be nasty to him.”

Snape gave an unamused snort.

“I mean it. I know he’s really young, and he used to be in your class, but it’s not easy being new. He’s trying.” Well…he was trying and sort of failing, but Harry didn’t need to be the one to bring that up.

“So you have decided to champion your favorite professor’s cause,” Snape said with a pinched expression. “How magnanimous.”

“I’m not championing any causes,” Harry protested. “And I never said he was my favorite.” He pulled a face at the thought and smoothed out his features a second too late.

Snape’s eyes shifted and took on a contemplative gleam. “You don’t like Professor Brooks,” he observed, though he didn’t sound upset about it.

“I didn’t say that,” Harry argued. He did like the new professor. He _did_. Mostly. He was maybe losing respect for him, which was a whole different matter.

“Hmm,” hummed Snape, his too-knowing eyes trained on Harry.

“I like him,” Harry insisted. “I do. He’s nice. And he likes me.” Which was true too. He just wished the professor would like him a little bit _less_. But how could he possibly complain about a professor liking him too much? Especially to Snape, a professor known for hating his guts for so many years?

Snape watched him, and Harry decided that Snape would indeed make an excellent interrogator, because he didn’t even have to say anything to make Harry need to spill.

“He just— He’s _too_ nice!” he finally burst out, throwing up his hands in annoyance.

Snape stared at him for a long moment and then blinked. “I must admit that I have never heard that particular complaint about a professor before.”

Harry huffed a laugh and threw up his hands again. “I know! I’m mental!” He looked around the sitting room for a way out of this conversation and his eyes alighted on the bookshelves. “How many of those books have you actually read?”

“I have not kept count,” answered Snape smoothly. “Define ‘too nice.’”

He groaned. “Forget I said anything. Brooks is fine. He’s trying, you know? The last thing he needs is for you to yell at him again.”

Snape hummed. “Fair enough.”

“Fair enough?” he repeated. It wasn’t like the professor to so easily drop something that caught his attention.

“Yes.” Snape’s fingers drummed away casually on the air of his chair. “Have you any other concerns in your classes?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What are you going to do?” he demanded.

“Do?” Snape fixed him with an innocent look. “Why, I am going to continue our discussion, listen to anything you have need to say to me, discuss a few alterations to our upcoming Occlumency lessons, and then consume my lunch. In my quarters, most likely. Perhaps with a book. It is an excellent way to recuperate from the stress of averting numerous potions disasters in yesterday’s classes alone.”

“You know what I mean! With Brooks! You’re going to do something, aren’t you? Just because I complained that he’s _nice_. Seriously. Forget I said anything. Please.”

Snape splayed his hands in a further show of innocence. “What precisely do you think I am planning to do?”

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted, “and that’s what worries me.”

Snape smirked, and Harry did _not_ like the gleam in his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” he gave in. If he was going to feel guilty about getting Brooks into trouble, he may as well spin it in the man’s favor. Maybe he could talk Snape into getting the poor man some help rather than taking it upon himself to terrorize him. “He’s not a bad teacher. Or—or at least he _could_ be good. He knows his Defense, he’s just…not got a lot of experience teaching, you know? And all the students know it. They walk all over him. So just…maybe you could hint at Professor Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall to give him some pointers.”

“You doubt _my_ ability to give pointers?” Snape asked with a raised eyebrow, and Harry couldn’t be sure, but he thought that maybe the man was teasing him. Snape was at least self-aware enough to know precisely why Harry thought his dealing with Brooks himself was a bad idea.

“I doubt _his_ ability to survive an extended encounter with you,” Harry shot back. “He’s _nice_ , remember? Not a bully, or a git, or a murderous maniac like some of the past Defense professors. He doesn’t deserve whatever you’ve decided he deserves, simply by existing. So be nice.” He supposed it was a testament to their evolving relationship that he could give Snape a direct order like that without consequence. The man merely sat back and lifted his hands in acquiescence, and Harry hoped Snape really would listen to him and not terrorize poor Brooks. Despite his failings, he really was the nicest teacher they’d had since Remus.

Remus. He couldn’t stop a frown at the thought and decided to ask, “I don’t, um, suppose you’ve heard from Remus lately?” He couldn’t quite manage to keep the hurt out of his voice, but there wasn’t much to be done about that, was there? He _was_ hurt by Remus’s silence.

“No,” Snape answered simply, studying him for a long moment, but didn’t say anything more about it, for which Harry was grateful.

“Oh. Okay.” He shrugged, but his shoulders were too heavy to make his show at nonchalance convincing, and he didn’t care to anyway. He was tired of pretending he was fine all the time. If it showed through that he was hurt or annoyed by Remus’s absence, then so be it. Not that he wanted to dwell on it. So he change the topic. “What…um, what changes are you making to our Occlumency lessons?”

Snape’s fingers tapped out a beat on the chair. “I have researched a few techniques that may aid in filtering out excess thoughts and emotions prior to sleep. I thought we would add that to our lessons, assess their benefit to your evening routine.”

Harry squished his eyebrows together. “When did you have time to do research? Do you ever sleep?”

“Not as much as I used to,” Snape said dryly. “My own sleeping habits aside, the techniques have merit. I should have looked into them before, truthfully, the moment I realized you had begun to over-rely on the potion. I…well. No use looking back. We are where we are.”

Yes, they were, weren’t they? He leaned back into the sofa, appreciating that despite it being old and worn, it was quite comfortable. _He_ felt quite comfortable. It was like a breath of fresh air had run through his body, and he felt exponentially better. Better than he had any right to feel after having stolen from Snape. But then, Snape wasn’t angry. He’d been forgiven, even if Snape hadn’t said those words exactly. He felt such relief, such a sense of hope for the future that he could cry. Not that he would, he decided resolutely. He’d already cried plenty last night.

He wasn’t expecting Snape to ask, “Were the glasses not to your liking?” and his gaze shot up in surprise. Snape was composed, but he knew he wasn’t imagining the nervousness in his voice when he added, “You are not obligated to use them, of course. I did not… It was not my intent to… You needn’t use them,” he concluded quickly. “If they are not to your liking, there are other options.”

Harry stared for a long moment before remembering his manners. He grabbed for his bag and fished out the glasses case. He set it on the table while he tried to think what to say.

Snape reached for the case. “There are others. I have a catalog. You can—”

“No!” Harry slapped both hands down on the case, visibly startling Snape in the process. “No. That’s not— I mean…I love them,” he said honestly. “No one’s ever…and it’s great, it’s really great, and thank you. They’re perfect. I just—” he broke off, frustrated at his own inability to come up with the right words. “I only mean, you don’t have to. If you didn’t want to anymore, if you want them back, I—I’d understand.”

Snape seemed relieved and even pleased as he leaned back in his chair. “Do not be ridiculous. A gift does not come with a return policy.”

Any remaining bit of tension he’d held in his shoulders seeped away at that. He bit his lip against a smile at the thought that he could keep the glasses. Snape knew about what he’d done, and he still wanted Harry to have them. It occurred to him to offer to pay him back. After all, he could have purchased them himself long ago if he had thought of it or known anything about self-adjusting glasses. But his gut told him that offering payment was the wrong thing to do. Snape wanted to buy them for him, and Harry liked knowing that he wanted to. So he kept silent, and he carefully opened the case and switched out his old glasses for the new. Again, he marveled at the tiny details that were clearer than before. He could see a piece of lint on the rug, and the fire was so crisp. It was nice. Really nice. He sat back in the sofa, fully at ease.

“Speaking of gifts…” Snape watched him closely. “You needn’t concern yourself about the stone. I assume it was lost during our recent…calamity?” He paused long enough for Harry to nod apologetically. “It was only a stone.”

“You kept it for more than twenty years,” Harry pointed out skeptically.

“And I realized in gifting it to you that it had served its purpose in my life,” said Snape easily. “It was yours. If you can come to terms with its loss, you need not worry about its impact on me.”

Harry bit his lip. That was a relief, but he still missed it.

“Your mother’s memory was not encapsulated in a piece of rock,” said Snape softly. “It took me many years to realize that. You can remember her without a physical object that she surely forgot about soon after she sent it to me.”

Harry’s mind caught on Snape’s admission that the letter and stone had indeed been intended for him, and a smile ghosted across his lips. “I…I know,” he agreed. “I only wish I had something else of hers. That was it, you know?” He shrugged heavily. “I have something of my dad’s, but that was the only thing of hers I ever had. It really did mean a lot to me. That you gave it to me. I don’t know if you knew how much. So. You know. Thank you.”

Snape looked away. “You are welcome,” he said so quietly that Harry almost missed it. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Snape stood abruptly. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, already on his way out.

A few minutes later, he returned and held out a hand, gesturing for Harry to hold out his own. Something light and smooth was dropped into his hand, and it took a moment for him to recognize it as a small silver charm in the shape of a flower. The small circle that should have attached it to a chain for a necklace or a bracelet was broken. He looked up in surprise. “It’s a…”

“Lily,” said Snape softly, and Harry pretended not to notice how his voice broke around the word. “The bracelet was a gift from her grandmother. Your great-grandmother. She was upset when she discovered the charm missing. I searched for it, found and intended to return it, and then…” He gestured, and Harry knew by the pain on his face that he was referring to the end of their friendship. Snape’s jaw clenched, then he let out a long, deliberate breath. “It can be repaired. If you wish to put it on a chain to secure it against loss, I can…help you to do that.”

Harry closed his hand around it. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that. Thank you.” His voice was rough, but Snape returned the favor by pretending not to notice, only dipped his head in acknowledgment.

They fell into an easy silence then, broken only by the fire crackling in the fireplace. Snape studied the fire, lost in his own thoughts, and Harry studied Snape. He revised his earlier opinion. He was one hundred percent glad that he had come here last night. He’d never in a million years have thought that he’d feel such gratitude and hope and even, dare he say, affection for the professor he had so fervently hated for so many years. He almost laughed out loud at the weirdness of it all and the happiness that bubbled up inside him, but he held it in, not wishing to disturb the quiet. He liked the quiet. It was peaceful.

It felt a little like…home.


	56. A Talent for Meddling

“List five benefits of nonverbal spells in peaceful situations.”

“Why would I need nonverbal spells in peaceful situations?” Ron asked in between spoonfuls of pudding. “No point.”

“There _is_ a point,” said Hermione exasperatedly. She waved several sheets of study notes in front of Ron’s nose. “Hence the question.”

Ron batted them away. “Yeah, well, it’s a stupid question. If I’m not being attacked, I can just say the spell. _Out loud_.”

Hermione raised her eyes to the ceiling and turned to Harry. “It’s going to be on the exam. Tell him.”

“How’s he supposed to know what’s on the exam?” groused Ron without giving Harry a chance to answer. “It’s not like he gets advanced copies. Wait. Do you?” He eyed Harry with sudden interest.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “What? No! How would I even do that?”

“You’re Brooks’s favorite,” said Ron matter of factly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Am not,” Harry grumbled. He shoved a bite of pudding in his mouth and looked about at the other stragglers in the Great Hall. Most of the students had left straight after lunch, and Harry liked the Great Hall like this, buzzing with conversation but without the loud din of mealtimes.

“It’s going to be on the exam,” Hermione said emphatically. “Do you know how I know? Because Professor Brooks specifically told us to study nonverbal spells because, and I quote, ‘it will be on the exam.’” She turned to Harry. “List five benefits of nonverbal spells in peaceful situations.”

“Um… Well, it’d be useful to use a freshening charm on the down-low when I’m next to a cute girl.” He shrugged.

“Oh.” Ron perked up. “That’s a good point.”

Hermione moaned. “Did _either_ of you study?”

“’Mione, don’t worry,” Harry grinned. “I’m only teasing.” He listed the five benefits out loud, and Hermione immediately let out a breath of relief and moved on to the next question. By the time they left for Transfiguration, it was apparent that while Ron wasn’t ready for tomorrow’s DADA exam, Harry was, and so Hermione was at least partly satisfied.

All things considered, he was having a very good Thursday. It was nice to have everything out in the open with Snape, even though it had been nerve-wracking to get there. The professor had helped him with a sleeping spell the previous night so that he would be well rested before beginning some new mental exercises tonight. Already, the sleep had done wonders for his mood. Even Ron and Hermione were smiling more in response to Harry’s high spirits.

When he managed to transfigure an apple core into a simple, sturdy footrest after only three tries, he smiled in delight. McGonagall gave him a nod of approval and moved on to assist Lavender, whose footrest had begun to growl at her chair. By the time the class was over, he was ready to cap off the day with some time by the lake with his friends. But before he could collect his things, McGonagall stopped him with a brisk wave forward. “A word, Mr. Potter.”

He shuffled to the front of the classroom as the last of his classmates filed out. McGonagall studied him critically for a moment, and he felt a twinge of nervousness. He hadn’t done anything, had he? Well. Anything recently.

She sat behind her desk and motioned for him to pull up a chair. “It has been brought to my attention, Mr. Potter, that I have been remiss in my duties.” Her pinched lips showed her disdain for that suggestion, but still she asked, “How are you faring in your classes?”

Oooh. Snape had got to her. He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or amused. “Good,” he assured her. “I’m all caught up.”

“And you haven’t had any trouble catching on to the material?” she asked.

“No,” He shook his head. “Not too much, anyway. It’s been a lot of work, but Hermione lent me her notes and Ron and the others studied with me.”

“Good. Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she said with a vindicated gleam in her eye, “for proving the point that my Gryffindors are perfectly capable of maintaining academic standards without incessant hand-holding.”

“Um. You’re welcome?”

McGonagall gave him a satisfied nod. She seemed poised to change the subject, but first he felt the need to explain, however ineloquently, that, “I didn’t complain. To him. About you. Just so you know. He’s just…Snape. Professor Snape, I mean. He’s…him. Gets an idea in his head. You know.”

McGonagall’s lips quirked into an almost-smile. “Yes. I do know.” She eyed him contemplatively for a few seconds. “I am going to take the liberty of speaking openly about a colleague, Mr. Potter. It will not happen often, so do pay attention.”

Harry nodded, curious.

“Professor Snape possesses an intensity of focus that has served him well in becoming one of the youngest and possibly the most accomplished Potions master of his generation. I admire that level of dedication, even if I do not always approve of what he chooses to focus his energies _on_. This time, I must say that I approve, however inconvenient I foresee that it may be for _me_ on occasion,” she said with a wry twist to her lips. “Only, please do be aware that when Professor Snape commits to a flight path, he occasionally forgets to pull up on the broom.”

“O—okay.” Harry scratched his chin, puzzling out that last bit.

She learned forward and explained, “He meddles because he cares, Mr. Potter. And it is very rare for him to care enough to meddle for the benefit of a student. When you inevitably chafe under that singular focus of his, remember that he means well. Generally. In your case, at the very least. So it appears.”

“Yes, ma’am,” He answered and grinned.

“Now,” she said briskly, all business. “Professor Snape has informed me that you have a detention to serve. Is that correct?”

He flushed and nodded.

“Very well. You will report to my office tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Understood?”

“Yes, professor.”

“Good.” She stood and handed him a small folded piece of paper.

Opening it, he read _flaming frisbees_ written in a familiar pen. He looked up. “The headmaster?”

She nodded. “He wishes to see you directly.”

By the time he gathered his books and headed for the headmaster’s office, his friends were nowhere to be found. They had probably waited for a few minutes, but by now they would be back in the Tower. By the time he rapped his knuckles on the door to Dumbledore’s office, his mind was on the game of wizard’s chess he and Ron had left unfinished that morning. He hoped Dumbledore didn’t plan on keeping him long. He’d like to finish the game before dinner, because he’d be with Snape most of the evening.

“Enter,” he heard, and it didn’t occur to him to wonder why it wasn’t Dumbledore’s voice speaking until he’d opened the door and come face to face with Remus. He stopped in his tracks. The headmaster was nowhere to be seen. Remus was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, turned to face Harry, smiling a nervous smile and tapping a beat on the floor with the toe of his shoe.

He had an immediate, selfish impulse to slam the door in the man’s face. See how _he_ liked being ignored. Instead, he carefully closed it behind him and waited for Remus to say something. It didn’t take long.

“Hello, Harry,” he said simply. “How are you?”

“Did Dumbledore make you come here?” It was rude. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“No,” Remus answered, but Harry could tell by the man’s chagrined look that he was on the right track.

“Snape, then,” he said knowingly, and an answering wince told him that he was right.

Remus stood. “Harry, listen…”

“Oh, that’s right. You get to show up whenever _you_ want _me_ to listen, never mind about when _I_ want to talk,” he said bitterly. He sounded like a bratty child, he knew, but he couldn’t quite stop himself.

Remus held up a placating hand. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. It shames me every day what I did to you that day. Please believe that I wasn’t myself.”

Harry scrunched up his face. “Are you talking about _Kneader’s_?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course.”

Harry’s anger reached a tipping point, and he took two deep breaths to stave off the impulse to yell. It didn’t work. “I’m not angry about Kneader’s, Remus!” he yelled. “I’m not an idiot. I didn’t blame you for what happened for one second! I knew the instant you cursed me that you weren’t you. I’m _angry_ because you took off and avoided me because you were too much of a _coward_ to come talk to me about it after!”

“Harry…” Sadness was clear in Remus’s voice, which made Harry even more angry, because it reminded him how much he had missed him, and how fragile his anger was and how quickly it could dissipate and he would forgive Remus. And yes, he knew how unreasonable it was to be angry that he couldn’t be angry, but such was life as a teenager, he supposed. He walked around to the side of Dumbledore’s office, where he could pace without getting too close. He was too afraid he’d ruin his show of temper by accidentally hugging the idiot.

“Did you even think about coming to see me on your own?” he asked, mortified when his voice broke. “Did Snape have to threaten you to get you here? Probably brought you by wandpoint, didn’t he? Or maybe he just sneered at you. You’ve always stood up to him pretty well, but I know how intimidating he can be. I always used to think you were the brave one and he was the coward, you know. Turns out I was wrong about both of you,” he spat. The room fell silent. “I didn’t mean that,” he admitted after a minute, not looking at Remus.

Remus sighed. “Yes. You did. And I can’t say that I blame you.”

Harry eyed the man through his fringe.

“Please sit,” Remus said gently as he took his own seat. “I realize that I am late, but I hope that I am not _too_ late?”

Harry inched his way over and perched stiffly on the edge of the offered chair.

Remus sighed. “I really do apologize.”

“For which part?” challenged Harry.

“For the running away like a coward and not talking to you part. It was very ill done of me.”

And just like that, Harry deflated. Perhaps he had gotten too used to dealing with Snape, with his mental walls and that emotional cold front that he had to work hard to chip away at. Not that it wasn’t worth chipping away at. But still. He’d forgotten how easy Remus was to talk to, how easy it was to get him to understand. Not so easy to get him within a mile of Harry when he really needed him, sure, but once he was there, it was easy to get him to listen.

“I never blamed you for what happened that day,” Harry insisted, pleading with his eyes for Remus to _get_ it. “Really. But I wanted to know how you were. It must have been awful, being controlled by Voldemort like that, and I only wanted to find out if you were okay, and you didn’t let me. You left. Again. Like you always do. Why do you keep doing that?”

“I…I don’t know.” Remus swallowed and looked away. “I suppose…you are right. I _am_ a coward, in many respects. I learned early on as someone who was…different that it was easier to make my own way, not depend on anyone and not have anyone depend on me. Avoidance became my default. Then you came along, and then Sirius returned to me…” He looked at Harry with a sad smile. “I saw how close you and Sirius became. When he died, and I mourned him all over again, and I saw how much you missed him, that we had that in common…for…for the first time, I had the thought that I could be there for someone. Like Sirius had been for you. Perhaps we could form as close to a family as either one of us might have otherwise.” He shook his head in self-reproach. “I was naive.”

“’Cause you didn’t know how?” Harry asked softly.

“Yes,” agreed Remus. “In part.” He hesitated.

“And because you didn’t really want to,” added Harry. He cut off the man’s weak protest. “It’s okay, Remus. I love you, you know I do. But I didn’t want to either. Still don’t.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “I suppose I should be offended by that.”

“It’s okay.” Harry smiled. “I’m not offended either.”

Remus returned his smile before he quickly sobered up. “But I wish to clarify one point, Harry. You are not unimportant to me. My…my avoidance is not correlated to anything you’ve done. It’s—”

“It’s not me, it’s you?” Harry cut in with a raised eyebrow. “You’re really going there?”

Remus cringed. “Well. Yes?” He laughed dryly and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You see, this is one reason I am ill equipped to be what you need. You see through me, Harry, into every line, every insincerity that I don’t even know I possess until you point it out. You see it all. And you never hesitate to call me out on it.”

“Sorry,” he said automatically, not sure if he meant it or not.

“Don’t be,” smiled Remus. “It’s good for me. Forces me to cut the bullsh— I mean...”

“Remus. I’m sixteen.” He rolled his eyes. “You can curse in front of me.”

Remus laughed. “You see? You, Harry Potter, are a straight shooter. You are unflinchingly honest, in the best way. You deserve such honesty in return.” He shook his head in self-reproach. “And I. I have made a habit of lying to even myself. I tell myself that I can do something, that I will be better, and at the first sign of trouble, I retreat to my old ways.”

“You _could_ be better,” nudged Harry gently, “if you really wanted to.”

“Yes,” he answered with a sad smile. “But I think that I need to do so for myself first. Not for you or for anyone else.”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry slowly. “Yeah, that’s a good idea, I think.”

“And besides, I am pleased to know that you have plenty of people looking out for you.”

Harry nodded. He couldn’t argue with that. He had amazing friends and some pretty decent teachers, too. “How _did_ Snape get you here?” he felt comfortable enough to ask. “Please don’t tell me he threatened you.”

“No. Ah,” Remus rubbed at the back of his neck and admitted, “Perhaps a little. However, I highly doubt he would have truly discontinued my Wolfsbane Potion or spelled poison into my tea.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I dunno about that. How many years have you _known_ him?”

Remus quirked his lips into a smile. “Long enough to know that the poison would not be _deadly_. Nevertheless, he won his case with an appeal to my better nature. Didn’t know he had it in him, to be honest. Told me I was doing a disservice to you. That you had gone through a lot this summer, and my ignoring the situation was only standing in the way of your dealing with the trauma. Is that true?” he asked, sincerity in his eyes. “Are you coping all right?”

Harry hesitated, not only because he wasn’t sure of the answer—he both was _and_ wasn’t coping well—but also because he wasn’t sure he wanted to confide in Remus about it. He’d rather discuss it with Snape. _Snape_ was the one who understood, and who had solutions. He was the one Harry trusted to be there for him when the going got tough.

Remus…well, he was a friend. Even if Harry only saw him one day out of the year, he would always be a friend. But that was all.

“I’m doing okay,” he said with a smile.

That was all, and it was enough for the both of them.

* * *

It was difficult to wait until evening to see Snape, and in the end he knocked at the door to the Potions classroom a full twenty minutes early for their lesson.

“Eager today, are we?” came a voice from down the hallway, and he swiveled toward it, startled. Snape was walking toward him, robes billowing behind him, from the direction of his personal quarters.

“I, uh…” He swept his eyes over the classroom door and back to the professor. “Sorry. You weren’t at dinner, and…I know you said you professors don’t live in your classrooms, but I keep, um, forgetting.”

“I suppose that is somewhat understandable,” Snape gave a sardonic twist to his lips as he opened the classroom door and gestured for Harry to follow him in. “Sometimes _I_ forget I don’t live here.”

He hesitated in the doorway. “I can come back. If you’re busy…”

“I have no objection to your company, so long as you have no objection to my getting a few things in order before we begin.” Snape gestured to a chair in front of his desk, then took a seat behind it. He busied himself straightening a stack of essays while Harry entered and closed the door behind him.

It was funny, he reflected as he made his way to the chair, how different the classroom felt now than it did in years past. He had always before felt dread and irritation when he stepped foot here. Now, he felt comfort and familiarity. The cold that had once felt so oppressive now felt refreshing. If anything, it invigorated him for his lesson.

And then there was Snape. He didn’t know precisely when he’d stopped seeing that hooked nose and those crooked teeth as ugly. He hardly even noticed the greasy hair anymore. He even considered that maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as he’d always imagined. Snape certainly didn’t smell like he didn’t know how to use shampoo. Too much time spent among steaming cauldrons, perhaps? Whatever the reason for that particular flaw, Snape was no longer ugly. He could not be characterized as a handsome man, perhaps, but his face was pleasant in its familiarity. Harry knew the lines on his forehead like the back of his own hand. He didn’t yet know how to decipher all of the emotions behind his eyes, some of which he had never seen before these past few weeks, but he would learn. He already knew so many of his gestures, and all the different ways he could communicate without speaking.

Like now, how his eyes were pinched, like he was in pain but was trying not to let on. And how he was watching him, with his head barely cocked to the side, clearly communicating that he knew Harry had something on his mind and was waiting for him to come out with it.

“Your Dark Mark is worse.” He didn’t have to ask. He could tell by the very fact that Snape was getting worse at hiding it.

Snape only hesitated a beat before saying, “It is nothing I cannot handle.”

“How?”

“Pardon?”

“How are you handling it?”

“I don’t see how that is your concern.”

Harry slumped back into his seat and wrinkled his nose. “Not my concern? Really? After everything? I know you don’t want me to _help_ help, but I’d still like to help, if I can. Or at least…share the burden? _Something_. I don’t like seeing people I care about in pain.” He bit his lip and ducked his head. Perhaps he shouldn’t be embarrassed after all they’d been through together—he hadn’t kept it a secret lately that he cared about Snape, after all—but he hadn’t meant for the words to come tumbling out like that.

After a few seconds of silence, Snape relented, his voice soft. “I have a salve.”

“A salve?” He peeked up through his fringe.

Snape nodded. “Those first weeks after our return, I spent every spare moment researching remedies and brewing potions. None were at all advantageous. It was…frustrating, to say the least. I finally developed a salve that takes the edge off, albeit minimally. But I must use it intermittently or else it loses its efficacy.”

“Does the Mark hurt all the time?”

“Yes.” The way he said it made it clear that he didn’t want pity, so Harry did his best not to show any. Only, he felt bad that he was taking up Snape’s time and energies with his problems when Snape had problems of his own. He should probably let Snape off the hook, tell him he didn’t have to do these lessons. Not that that was an option that he wanted to consider. He needed Snape’s help. He only hated thinking it might be causing Snape more pain, and less rest…

“Stop,” Snape snapped.

“Huh? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were doing that thing you do.” Snape waved his hand in a wide circle in Harry’s direction. “Where you blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault. Stop. It’s a ridiculous habit.”

Harry started to deny it but stopped at Snape’s knowing look. “Fine. Well, but…I mean, it’s not like _none_ of it is my fault,” he argued. “You got found out because of me, and You-Know-Who is more angry _and_ more powerful because of me. And—” He faltered as he thought of something. “Does it matter if I say his name now? Would it cause more pain, or would it not matter, ‘cause the Mark already…I dunno, activated or whatever?”

Snape looked thrown, like he didn’t know which part to respond to first, and Harry answered his own question. “Guess it doesn’t matter. I won’t test it,” and went on as if he hadn’t been sidetracked. “And I really appreciate you helping me and all, but it’s causing a lot of extra work for you. So maybe I am blaming myself a _bit_ , and of course it’s not all my fault, but you can’t say _none_ of it’s my fault, can you? Objectively,” he tacked on, because Snape loved objective facts.

“I most certainly can,” argued Snape right back. “But I am not going to sit here and list _again_ all the ways that the Dark Lord’s murderous intentions are not the fault of an innocent boy he’s targeted since before his birth. You are intelligent enough to know better,” he scolded and then muttered, “even if your propensity toward self-flagellation is so ingrained. So in lieu of all that, allow me to state unequivocally that I am here because I want to be. While tutoring you may require additional work on my part, I welcome the challenge _and_ the distraction. Let us consider the matter closed.”

Harry nodded, too relieved to feel chastised.

Snape sat back and examined him until he appeared satisfied. “How are you feeling today? Rested? Tonight we will work entirely on exercises to promote a restful pre-sleep state, but your mind should be alert enough to properly focus.”

“Yeah. I’m good. Really,” he added at Snape’s probing look. “But could—” he hesitated. “Could we…talk more first?”

“Something is the matter?” Snape frowned.

“No. No, nothing. I’d just like…to talk.”

“Certainly.” The professor nodded his head, steepled his fingers, and waited for Harry to talk.

Which…no pressure or anything. He looked around. “Not about anything in particular…” He just…well, wanted to talk. With Snape. Because he could. Because something about talking with him after a long day of school relaxed him.

“Ah.” Snape unsteepled his fingers and tapped out a rhythm on the desk. “Well then. I had something _I_ wished to discuss with _you_.”

“Yeah?” Harry sat up, curious.

“I do realize that it is short notice, but if you are agreeable, I thought that we might take a Portkey to Kneader’s Point in the morning.”

Harry grinned. “Really?”

Snape inclined his head. “Mr. Kneader is amenable to company.”

“That’s great! I mean, yes. Yes, I’m agreeable.”

“Good. We will leave after breakfast and return mid-afternoon.”

He managed to keep himself from bouncing in his seat, but only barely. It wasn’t very often that he got to go on a trip of his choosing. Even if it was only to see a snake and have a glimpse of the sea, it was exciting.

Snape seemed pleased by his reaction. He then asked a little too casually, “You cleared the air with Lupin?”

“Uh, yeah.” He and Remus had talked for a while, and it felt good, like another weight had lifted off his chest. In many ways, their chat had been a goodbye. To each other for the foreseeable future, but also to the idea that Remus could somehow be a larger part of Harry’s life. And he was fine with that. Glad, even, because now they knew what to expect from each other. It was like a release for them both.

“It…it was good. To see him. To talk. Thank you,” he said earnestly, “for threatening him with poison to get him here.”

Snape harrumphed. “Is that what he told you?”

“Did he lie?” Harry asked with a knowing glance.

“Far be it from me to accuse your precious Lupin of deceit,” Snape sidestepped. “I suppose we’ll be seeing more of him then?” He couldn’t contain a sneer, and Harry snickered, which earned him a mild glare.

“No. He’s not going to be around for a while.” Snape narrowed his eyes, and before he could hatch a plot to actually poison Remus, Harry explained, “It’s good. And, uh, mutual. I love Remus and all. He was a good teacher, but he’s not really all that great at the…well, substitute-godfatherish type stuff, you know? He’s good at the listening part, I guess just not…the dependability part? Among other things. Anyway. We cleared the air. I’m glad. Maybe I’ll see him next summer or something.”

“You are certain that is what you want?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I am.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t sure Snape believed him, but the man seemed satisfied. Maybe even a little _too_ satisfied.

“You could _try_ to get along with him, you know.”

“I do, in fact. I haven’t killed or maimed the man, have I?” Snape raised his eyebrows to emphasize his point.

“No, you’ve just threatened him.”

“He deserved it.”

And Harry couldn’t refute that, exactly, because he sort of agreed that Remus had been acting like an idiot. Plus, it felt nice to know that Snape was willing to threaten people on his behalf, even if Harry wasn’t a fan of threatening behavior in general. So he let it slide and reached into his pocket, pulled out a pocket watch, and handed it over. “Remember this?”

Snape turned it over in his hands. “Black’s, yes?”

“Uh huh. The one Remus gave me for my birthday. He said he’d help me personalize it if I wanted. I decided to take him up on it. Seemed like a decent olive branch, you know? And anyway, I don’t need it exactly the same as it was in order to remember Sirius. Kind of like how you talked about my mum and the stone. I can remember Sirius even if things he left behind aren’t exactly the same. So after Remus and I talked, I fetched the watch and asked him to help me change it up.”

He watched Snape open the watch, knowing what he would see. Tiny words lined the outside of the watch’s face where numbers would otherwise be. _Tower, class, Great Hall, forest, grounds, detention, on holiday._ He’d left those alone and added _dungeons_ and _Hogsmeade_. Three of the four hands that used to contain the names of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, now read Harry, Hermione, and Ron. He’d considered adding more hands for more names, maybe Ginny or his other Gryffindor friends. He’d even thought about adding Snape’s name. But no. The man had barely let him into his life. He wouldn’t want Harry to keep tabs on where he was every second of every day. He knew how to reach Snape if he needed to, and that was enough.

The professor sent him a questioning glance. “You left Wormtail.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Wasn’t going to, but couldn’t quite bring myself to remove it. My dad and Sirius…they’re dead, but he’s not. He’s a rat. Can fit into tight places. What if he tries to get into Hogwarts, and I wouldn’t know except it’s on the watch?”

“Surely you know that the headmaster has taken precautions?” Snape set down the watch and studied Harry. “We were unaware that either Pettigrew or Black were animagi when they previously managed to infiltrate the school, much less that Pettigrew was alive. Should he attempt to reach you again, he will not find it so easy.”

He nodded. “I know. Just the same…”

“It makes you feel safe. To know.”

“Yeah.” He cringed. “I’m not scared, I swear, I—”

“Caution does not make you a coward,” Snape cut in. “Should you need reassurance of his whereabouts, you should certainly retain his name on the watch. It may even be considered prudent.”

Harry sat back, reassured that Snape didn’t think he was a scared little kid for keeping the name. He took back the watch and studied it. “I asked Remus if it would work to spell other names onto it. Could be a good idea to track Death Eaters or You-Know-Who, right? He said it couldn’t be done.”

“No,” agreed Snape. “There are ways to track people, certainly, but more complicated than on the face of a pocket watch. Such simplistic magic as this requires consent. Pettigrew presumably gave his consent long ago.”

Harry nodded. “We—Ron and Hermione and I—had to say a spell over it after. Put something of our magical signatures into it.” He pocketed the watch. “I like it better now. It’s something that belonged to Sirius, but it’s mine now too.” He let go of the watch and let his fingers drift over the outline of his lily-shaped charm, where it sat against his chest under his shirt. Snape had helped him to repair it yesterday and had located a simple chain from which to hang it.

Snape scrutinized him for a few seconds and then asked, “Enough talk, perhaps? You will have no sleeping spells or potions tonight. We will instead work on preparing your mind through Occlumency techniques. You will be glad to have as much time for practice as possible.”

“Preparing my mind how?”

Snape brought his chair around to the other side of his desk and motioned for Harry to face him. “We will focus on reaching a state of calm prior to sleep, reducing the possibility that your sleeping mind will react to negative stimuli. As that is not foolproof, I will also introduce you to techniques to fight off dreams whilst you are caught in their snare.”

He frowned as he turned his chair. “How can I fight off a nightmare if I don’t even know I’m in one? That’s the whole point of dreaming. You think it’s real.”

“We practice enough so that it is ingrained in you.” Snape pulled out his wand. “Your sleeping mind relies on instinct. Habit. You will practice these techniques so often and in such detail that you will use them automatically, even in your sleep. Which is quite the point.”

Well. That sounded promising. A lot of work, maybe, but worth it if it helped. He took a deep breath and nodded his readiness.

In truth, though they hadn’t yet begun, his mind was already loads calmer than it had been in days. It helped to be able to talk to Snape with all their cards on the table. To know that help was on its way. To not feel alone. The slight weights of the charm around his neck and the watch in his pocket were a way that his mum and his godfather could be with him even after they couldn’t be anymore. But more importantly, Snape _could_ be here. _Wanted_ to be here.

_Wanted_ , he repeated in his head. Snape wanted to be here. Even after everything.

Surely that thought alone was good for chasing away a nightmare or two.

* * *

“I _told_ you that you should have studied,” Hermione sniffed as they took their seats in the DADA classroom the following afternoon.

“I thought the exam was Monday!” moaned Ron, shuffling frantically through his notes. “How was I supposed to know it was today?”

“Because I _told_ you. So did Professor Brooks. About ten times each! _Friday_ doesn’t sound in the least like _Monday_.”

“We went over all the study questions though, right?” Harry pointed out. “You were listening. Just try to remember what we talked about and you’ll be fine.”

Ron groaned. “The only thing I remember is that nonverbal spells are useful if I’ve got a crush on a girl, and I don’t think Brooks’ll like that answer.”

“Which is why you should have studied,” said Hermione unhelpfully. She faced forward and cocked her head to the side. “What is Professor Flitwick doing here?”

“Flitwick?” Harry swiveled to face the front, and sure enough, there was Flitwick talking to Brooks. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, and the students eyed him curiously as they chattered amongst themselves. Now he understood why Malfoy and his goons weren’t being as rowdy as usual. Flitwick wasn’t the strictest professor at Hogwarts, but he commanded a certain level of respect. They all knew he didn’t hesitate to take points or hand out detentions when students deserved it. And more than half of Brooks’s class deserved it on a typical day.

Whatever the shorter professor was doing there, he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. He took a seat next to the DADA professor’s desk and gave Brooks a smile and a nod, as if in encouragement.

“All right class, let’s settle down now,” Brooks called out with a nervous smile, which then shifted to a real smile when the class immediately quieted. Usually he had to say that at least five times for it to have any effect. He happily snatched a stack of blank exams, called out, “books away, quills out,” and was practically beaming after everyone obeyed.

Harry turned over his exam and held in a laugh when the first question asked them to “list five benefits of nonverbal spells in peaceful situations,” and he could hear Ron’s low grumble from the seat next to him. If not for Flitwick’s presence, he might have been tempted to whisper some hints to his friend. As it was, they were only ten minutes into the most peaceful DADA class of the term when Professor Flitwick quietly said his goodbyes to Brooks and left. It only took five more minutes for the first wad of paper to fly across the room.

Brooks cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “I…ah, I’ll thank you to not, er…cause disturbance in class, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Wasn’t me,” Malfoy said in a voice dripping with false innocence. “You must’ve seen wrong.”

“I…I know what I saw, Mr. Malfoy.” Brooks cleared his throat to rid it of its wobble, then said in a rush, “N—next disturbance from anyone, it’ll be points.” His voice rose at the end as if in a question. Most of the class ignored him, a few of the boys chortled, and another paper wad flew overhead.

“Five, er…five points from Slytherin, Mr. Nott.”

Harry stared, and he wasn’t the only one. Brooks _never_ took points. Nott looked as surprised as the rest; he couldn’t seem to decide whether to smirk or to scowl.

“You can…ah, continue your exam, or I c—can take more points.” Brooks wiped a bit of sweat off his brow, and the poor man looked about to faint. From Nott’s narrowed eyes, he knew it too. The Slytherin boy was clearly weighing his options. But as nervous as Brooks was, Nott must have decided the professor meant it, for he scowled and went back to his exam.

Brooks blinked, clearly stunned that it had worked, and Harry bent his head over his exam to hide a grin. It was a step. Brooks had an uphill battle on his hands, and the Slytherins in particular wouldn’t take it this easy on him next time, but it was a step in the right direction. And Harry knew exactly who was behind it.

He remembered wondering once, back at Grimmauld Place, how many areas of expertise Snape had to his name. It was a valid question. The professor was highly skilled in Potions, Occlumency, Defense, spying, and dueling, among other things. And now Harry could add one more skill to the list. Who knew Severus Snape had such a talent for meddling?


	57. That Stubborn Thing You Do

“So. Flitwick?”

“You disapprove?” Snape asked as he scowled at the sand sticking to his shoes. They had rather inconveniently had to take a Portkey to the beach, as Kneader’s home was not connected to the floo network.

“No,” Harry shook his head with a smile. “Flitwick’s perfect, actually. Wouldn’t intimidate a fly, not like you or Professor McGonagall, but he manages to keep his classes in line anyway. Probably the best one to show Professor Brooks a thing or two, and without scaring him half to death, which…you know. Is a plus. Can’t believe I didn’t think of him myself.”

“You are not required to think of everything yourself,” Snape pointed out distractedly. He turned and made his way through the slippery sand toward Kneader’s home, clearly expecting Harry to keep up.

He shrugged to himself as he followed. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t _try_ to think of everything himself. Old habits and such. “Anyway. He needs a lot of help, but I think Professor Flitwick’s helping him already. So thanks.”

Snape inclined his head but said no more.

Harry aimed a half exasperated, half amused eye roll at the professor’s back. The man had been in a foul mood ever since Harry had met him at his office that morning. Fortunately, now that he liked Harry, that translated to alternating between being short and silent rather than being outright nasty. He could at least tell that he wasn’t the object of Snape’s ire, and so he let it slide without comment.

Besides, Harry was in a good enough mood for the both of them. He smiled as he breathed in the fresh salt air and felt the cool ocean breeze against his cheeks. He half wished he could stay here on the beach, take off his shoes, and squish his toes in the sand. But then he wouldn’t have as much time to see Hunter, so he pushed that thought out of his mind and rushed to catch up with Snape’s long strides.

By the time they reached the stone path leading up to the house, Harry could see Kneader seated on the front porch. The older man was sipping a cup of tea as he casually watched their progress.

When they reached the porch, Harry watched closely as the men greeted each other. He was still fascinated by whatever friendship the two men had, but there were no big smiles or _how-have-you-been_ ’s, only perfunctory hellos and familiar nods. When Kneader’s eyes turned to Harry, he couldn’t help but fidget under the sharp gaze.

The man inclined his head. “Welcome back, Mr. Potter. I was quite relieved to hear of your escape. You gave us all a bit of a fright.”

“Sorry,” he said automatically, and Snape snorted.

“You’ll have to forgive him, Ephraim,” Snape said in a dry tone. “Mr. Potter here lacks proper discernment over which situations do or do not require an apology. We’re working on it.”

Harry wrinkled his nose at Snape and said cheekily, “It’s called being polite.”

Kneader humored them both with a kind smile, and when his gaze next settled on Harry, it contained a warmth that he hadn’t seen before. At least not when directed at him. He couldn’t help himself; he did a double-take, and then gave the man a small, tentative smile in return. Perhaps Kneader wasn’t dead set on disliking Harry after all. Whether it was because Harry’d shown himself to be likeable before or because Snape no longer disliked him now, he supposed it didn’t much matter. Being the object of Kneader’s warm gaze was much nicer than squirming under his sharp gaze.

Still, it didn’t distract him from his mission. Kneader invited them inside, but Snape must have caught Harry’s glance at the meadow, for he motioned for him to go. “Find your friend. Stay within sight of the porch.”

Harry grinned and took to the meadow at a run. Which turned out to be a bad idea, as he nearly tripped over a rock and had to surreptitiously look behind him to make sure his ungraceful stumble hadn’t been seen. He slowed to a brisk walk after that.

After having walked the length of the meadow twice, and giving the tree a wide berth—he shuddered at the memories that patch of ground raised—he sat down on a particularly large boulder in clear view of the house and waited. He figured it would only be a matter of time before Hunter smelled his scent in the air and came to find him. The first time they’d talked, Harry had been fascinated by Hunter’s explanation of how he could differentiate between all of the humans and animals in the area by smell alone. Without even looking at them!

He sighed and looked up at the blue sky. Not for the first time, he wished he could talk to other animals too. Think of the things he could learn! He smiled, thinking that he sounded like Hermione. No, not quite like Hermione, he decided. He didn’t want to build up a compendium of knowledge in his head; he simply wanted to know some of the cool things that animals knew that he didn’t.

Like what must it be like to have wings and fly anywhere one wanted to?

Or to burrow down deep underground?

Or to have a built-in fur coat to ward off the cold?

They all sounded nice. He would have loved to have had the ability to fly or burrow away from the Dursleys, or to have built-in warmth all those times they left him with one threadbare blanket in the cold cupboard.

Which brought a less pleasant question to his mind. He hadn’t thought of the Dursleys overly much lately, with everything else going on. He wondered if he would have to go back there ever again. Now that Snape and Dumbledore knew what they knew, surely they wouldn’t make him. It sounded like maybe they wouldn’t. For the first time since the night he’d met Sirius, he had real hope that he was finally done with his relatives. For good.

Maybe. He still had doubts. He couldn’t help himself. He’d had to put up with his relatives for fifteen years, and every time he’d had a little bit of hope that either he’d be taken away from them or they would begin to be nice to him, he’d been disappointed. He’d given up on asking adults for help long ago. They never came through. But this time…

This time, he had a bit more hope. Even if he couldn’t give in _completely_ to that hope, he thought he might have finally found somebody with the guts and motivation to come through for him. Snape hated his relatives, and not only because they were annoying Muggles. Snape was familiar with the fear and self-doubt that came with being raised by spiteful people. He was no stranger to the kind of life Harry had with them, and despite their past, despite the hate that used to exist between them, he knew that Snape didn’t want Harry to go back to the Dursleys.

He felt unbelievably silly for so much as thinking it, but he felt almost as if he had found a…well, a champion. Snape would fight to keep him sane, would fight to help him defeat Voldemort, and he would fight to keep him from going back to the Dursleys.

He smiled. And then he thought of what Snape’s reaction would be to being called a champion, and his lips broke into a face-splitting grin. Snape would _hate_ it. He snickered. _If the shoe fits_...but he made a mental note to block it from his mind during future Occlumency lessons.

Before he could dwell any longer on that thought, his ears caught on a wisp of a sound and he sat up straight, eyeing the direction he thought it had come from. He caught sight of a black and white length slithering through the grass, and his grin grew impossibly wider. “Hunter!”

“Sssnake-wizzzard-human,” Hunter hissed as he drew closer.

Harry almost corrected him, but he supposed it didn’t matter all that much if Hunter couldn’t understand that he wasn’t part snake. At least he was starting to get the wizard part.

The snake stopped next to Harry’s boulder and began to slowly coil in place.

“I missed you,” said Harry. He reached out, and Hunter obligingly moved his head forward so that Harry could run his fingers along the smooth scales behind his eyes.

Hunter slowly bobbed his head. “Sssnake-wizzzard-human is not dead. I am glad.”

Harry let out a low laugh. “Yeah. You and me both. How has the hunting been since I left?” It felt like he’d been here only yesterday talking to Hunter, but it had been six weeks now since he’d been captured. Six long weeks.

“The frog wasss delicccious.” Hunter bobbed his head behind him, which Harry took to mean that he had eaten only a little bit ago. “It isss growing colder. Food isss harder to find. I will sssleep sssoon.”

“Oh.” He guessed the snake meant hibernation. It occurred to him that he still didn’t even know what kind of snake Hunter was, and he’d had no idea that he hibernated during the winter. Maybe if he found out how long this type of snake hibernated, he could talk Snape into taking him here to visit again soon after he was due to wake up. He could maybe even ask Snape all about Hunter. As a Potions master, he probably knew a lot about different kinds of snakes.

“I slept for a while too,” he heard himself say before he quite knew it was on his mind. “Only for a week. But it felt longer. Well. Okay, it felt like no time had passed, really. But it also felt like a long time. Because somebody made me sleep. I didn’t want to.” He shook his head to clear it. He hadn’t talked to anyone about that part of what had happened, not more than the basics, anyway. He didn’t realize until now how much he needed to.

“A lot happened to me while I was away,” he explained because Hunter was cocking his head in a way that said he wasn’t sure what Harry was talking about, but he was willing to listen. “A bad wizard took me, and he hurt me. And I know it doesn’t make sense, but even though a lot of bad stuff happened, sleeping was the worst of it. At least when the bad wizard hurt me, I knew what was happening and I could do something about it. Even if the only thing I could do was to scream or kick, at least I was in control of my own body. When he made me sleep…” He swallowed, hard. “I knew he could do whatever he wanted to me and I couldn’t stop it, wouldn’t even know. And I didn’t know when or if I would wake up. It was scary.”

“I do not mind sssleep,” hissed Hunter. “I can teach you how to do it better.”

Harry smiled and let out a sigh. “Thanks. Maybe next time I see you.” He’d known the snake couldn’t fully understand, but it still felt nice to unload his thoughts out loud. He moved from the boulder to lie on his back in a smooth patch of ground. He stared at the sky as Hunter coiled up closer to his side and partly onto his chest. “I think maybe it’s okay to not have control all the time, but it’s different when you can _choose_ to give up control, isn’t it?”

Hunter scooted his head under his hand, and he ran his fingers lightly back and forth over the snake’s scales.

“Like, I didn’t used to like it when my teacher made decisions for me. Okay,” he admitted with a wry grin, “I still don’t. But sometimes it’s nice to let somebody make the hard decisions, isn’t it? Not the kind that the bad wizard makes for people, but the kind parents and teachers make for kids. Those aren’t so bad, some of the time.”

Hunter hovered closer so that he was peering down at Harry’s face. “You are still in the nest,” he reminded simply, as if that explained everything.

Harry’s lips quirked up into a grin. “Yeah. Still in the nest. Sort of.” And still without a nest, he added mentally, but no. That didn’t seem quite right. Maybe Hogwarts was his nest. He didn’t know how he’d have made it through this year without his friends and professors around him.

“Not in Teacher’s nessst,” said Hunter as if still doubtful.

“No,” Harry confirmed. “Not in Teacher’s nest.”

“You left and he came. He looked for you. And you are here,” Hunter explained as if that settled something.

Harry smiled. “Yeah. He found me. He saved me from the bad wizard.”

“I ssshowed him your ssstick. It upssset him. I wasss afraid, but he did not hurt me.”

Harry rubbed Hunter’s neck comfortingly. “I told you he wouldn’t. He knows we’re friends. He won’t hurt you. Just…don’t make any sudden movements when you see him, okay? He might still be a little nervous around you.”

“I did not bite him.”

“I know. Thank you.”

Hunter bobbed his head and confessed, “I bit dog-human.”

Harry barked a laugh at the gravity of Hunter’s confession, but he sobered up quickly. “I know. It’s okay.” He’d hate to think what could have happened if Remus hadn’t been brought to a Healer right away, but that wasn’t Hunter’s fault. All he’d known was that Remus had been the bad guy that day. Harry thought about explaining more, but it would only confuse Hunter, and it was highly unlikely Remus would ever be back here anyway. “You did well to stop him,” he assured the snake.

Hunter seemed reassured and rested his head on Harry’s chest. They lay like that until the sun was high in the sky, and he learned more about the snake’s life. He’d had no idea how difficult it could be to catch wild mice, nor did he think he ever needed to know such a thing, but it was fun to hear Hunter tell the tale of his last hunt gone awry. He listened in turn as Harry explained more about his friends at school. He thought Hunter would rather enjoy meeting Ron, though he wasn’t sure he could say the same about Ron.

He knew they were no longer alone when Hunter went completely still and gazed at a point beyond Harry.

“Is it Teacher?” Harry asked.

The snake lifted his head slowly and hissed, “Yesss. He isss ssstill. Isss he afraid?”

Harry grinned. “Probably. I’m going to sit up now, okay?”

Hunter obligingly scooted his weight from Harry’s chest and coiled himself up in the dirt, never taking his eyes away from where Snape presumably stood.

“I will not bite,” Hunter said.

“I know.” He lifted himself into a sitting position and turned. Sure enough, Snape had stopped several paces away and was watching them warily. “You can come closer, if you want,” Harry called. “He promised he won’t bite. I bet he’ll even let you touch him if you want. I think he trusts you after you didn’t hurt him before.”

Snape cleared his throat. “As tempting as that offer is…”

“Come on, you’re not afraid, are you?”

Snape shot him an unimpressed glare. “We are not all Gryffindors, mistaking recklessness for bravery. I am quite sensibly wary of placing myself within biting distance of a pair of venomous fangs, particularly as I have now had occasion to see the result of those fangs in action.”

“He won’t bite you, I swear.”

“And he very well won’t bite me from a distance either,” Snape snapped back, his bad-mood-day patience obviously wearing thin.

Harry sighed and muttered, “Fine. I only wanted him to meet you for real, is all,” and pet Hunter himself. The little snake must be feeling the tension in the air and not know how to interpret it, for he was coiling up more tightly. “It’s okay,” he assured in Parseltongue. “We weren’t arguing, not really. Humans can disagree but still be friends.”

Hunter dipped his head under Harry’s hand, almost like he was nuzzling it, which Harry was fairly certain was the most adorable thing he’d seen all year. The snake went still again at the rustling of dirt and grass, and Harry looked up in happy surprise to see Snape inching forward, a resigned but determined look on his face.

“Give me your word that I am not committing suicide, or so help me Merlin, my ghost will haunt you until your dying day.”

Harry laughed in delight. “You really want to spend your afterlife following around a Gryffindor?”

Snape pulled a face but his eyes were focused on the black and white snake as he drew closer.

“Can my teacher touch you?” Harry asked the snake. “It would show him you’re friendly, if you would let him.”

“Yesss,” Hunter hissed and moved his head slowly toward Snape, who froze.

“It’s okay,” Harry insisted. “He said he won’t bite.”

Snape hummed as if to say he didn’t believe he was about to do this and then knelt next to Harry. He cautiously held out a hand, as Hunter regarded him, equally cautious. He flicked his tongue at Snape, and to the professor’s credit, he didn’t draw back. Of course, he didn’t move his hand closer either.

“He’s just sniffing you out,” explained Harry.

“Yes,” murmured Snape. “I am aware.” Still, he took another deep breath before moving his hand the rest of the way. Hunter ducked a bit, allowing Snape to run his fingers lightly over his neck.

Harry beamed. “See? He likes you. Or, at least, he doesn’t _dislike_ you.”

Snape hummed noncommittally and withdrew his hand. Hunter coiled up loosely next to Harry and rested his head in a crook of his own body, curiously watching Snape.

“You can pet him more, if you want.” Snape shot him a look that spoke volumes, and Harry laughed. “Next time, then?””

Snape shook his head. “Of all the skills you could have mastered, snake taming had to be on the list?”

Harry shrugged and ran his hand over Hunter’s scales. “It’s not taming if you can _talk_ to the snake. It’s only… making friends.”

“You don’t have enough friends already?”

“Life doesn’t have a friends limit, you know.”

“Neither is there a quota to aspire to.”

“Well maybe there should be,” said Harry stubbornly. “There are a lot of miserable people in the world who might be happier if only they had more friends.”

“And you intend to befriend them all, do you?” Snape said, and even though Harry knew the man wasn’t in the best of moods, the sneer in his voice rubbed him the wrong way.

“Of course not,” he snapped. “But there’s nothing wrong with making friends where I can. Maybe if you tried making friends once in a while, you wouldn’t be so serious and grumpy all the time!” He bit his lip, already regretting being so rude after Snape had helped him out so much.

Snape sniffed and said, “I came to retrieve you for lunch. Mr. Kneader has no doubt been required to break out the warming spells by now.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Can I have a few minutes to say goodbye?”

“Of course.” Snape stiffly rose to his feet, and Harry caught him rubbing at his left arm as he walked away. He frowned, wondering if that was the reason for the professor’s foul mood. He wished he had a way to take his pain away. In time, maybe he would. If Snape and Dumbledore would ever let him try… In the meantime, maybe he shouldn’t be too hard on him for being out of sorts.

“Professor?” he called after him, and Snape half turned to look back. “I’m sorry for saying you’re serious and grumpy all the time and have no friends.”

Snape lifted his eyes to the sky, but the corner of his lip curled in a way that told Harry he was already forgiven. “Potter. I _am_ serious and grumpy all the time and have no friends. It is hardly an exaggeration, and you are hardly the first to point it out.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s nice to say,” Harry murmured. “And anyway, it’s not _really_ true. You’re not grumpy _all_ the time, and you have at least…three friends.”

“Three, hmm?” Snape turned completely and folded his hands over his chest. “Pray tell, who made the cut?”

“Dumbledore, Kneader, and me,” Harry listed on three fingers. “And before you say I can’t count Dumbledore ‘cause he’s your boss or myself ‘cause I’m a student, I beg to differ. There are all kinds of friends, and I’m putting us both on your list, like it or or no.” He lifted his chin. “And I still don’t believe you’re not friends with at least _some_ of the other professors. Flitwick, maybe. I still dunno about McGonagall. You’re probably both too hard-headed to be really good friends with each other. But maybe you chat sometimes? Or maybe…uh…” Come to think of it, he still wasn’t sure who else he could name. Hagrid probably drove Snape crazy, and he always treated Pomfrey with simple professional courtesy. Sprout didn’t seem like the type Snape would buddy up to…

“I _had_ hoped your interest in my personal life was a phase,” Snape interrupted his thoughts. “It seems it is doomed to be forever in your sights.”

Harry shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m on your friend list now. Makes me even more curious ‘bout who I’m sharing the list with. Madame Hooch?” he asked doubtfully.

Snape shook his head at Harry, though he didn’t seem as irritated as before. “The dubious concept of a _friend list_ aside, I do not think such ‘lists’ operate as exclusive clubs, wherein everyone is thereby entitled to a standing social invite to mix and mingle.”

Harry snorted. “I know you’re out of practice, but that’s exactly how it works. When you have friends, you invite them together and they meet each other. It’s called having a social life.”

Snape grimaced. “I have no desire to cultivate a social life.”

Harry was tempted to laugh at Snape’s obvious disgust with the idea, but he hid his grin with a duck of his head and another pat on Hunter’s back. The snake bobbed his head, content to watch them with the occasional tongue flick.

He opened his mouth to wheedle the professor for more information, but Snape cut off his attempt before he could make a sound. “Finish up and come inside. If you don’t take too long,” he added with a long look, “I may be inclined to be moderately forthcoming about some one or other inconsequential and wholly unexciting detail of my personal life.”

“Really?” Harry beamed.

“Really,” said Snape softly before he spun on his heel and continued on his way to the house.

He turned back to Hunter. “Sorry I’ve been ignoring you.”

“It isss fine,” Hunter replied as he slowly threaded his body under one of Harry’s arms and over the other. “It is peaccceful to lisssten to you ssspeak wizzzard-language.”

“Do you understand any of it?”

“No,” he said, and Harry ran his fingers over his back as he wove back and forth.

“Thank you for letting Teacher touch you. I think he likes you.” He decided the exaggeration was for a good cause. Hunter and Snape may never be friends, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t make good allies.

“Will I sssee Teacher again?”

“Maybe. Probably. We have to leave now. I won’t be back before you have to sleep, but maybe I can visit again sometime after you wake up. If I do, Teacher will probably be with me.”

“Then farewell, sssnake-wizzzard-human.” Hunter began to uncoil and slither away. “I mussst prepare to sssleep.”

“Farewell.” Harry stood, brushing pieces of dirt and grass from his clothing as he did so. He felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. It was nice to talk to someone like Hunter, who accepted him without any expectations of him as the Boy Who Lived, and who let him talk about anything that was on his mind. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply of the fresh salt air, and grinned as he headed to the house.

He was still grinning when he saw Snape sitting on the porch, waiting for him. Maybe he could wheedle out some small morsel of information about his professor before they headed in to lunch. He figured a good place to start was by following up on the question about Snape’s relationships with his fellow teachers, since Harry had bothered him about it several times now. It couldn’t take him too long to heave a long-suffering sigh and admit that _yes, Mr. Potter, Flitwick and I regularly chat over tea and crumpets_ or _no, Mr. Potter, Hooch and I haven’t said two words to each other in the time that I’ve known her_. Okay, so the last one definitely wasn’t true. Harry had seen Snape speak to Madame Hooch before. But…he must have _something_ interesting for Harry!

He was pretty sure his eagerness was written all over his face as he got closer, but then he got a good look at Snape, and he faltered. Something wasn’t right. The man’s head was bowed, and his legs were folded underneath him like he’d sat down suddenly once he’d reached the porch. Harry took the last few steps at a sprint.

“Professor?” He dropped down next to Snape, his hands ghosting over the man’s back. He was breathing heavily, obviously in pain, and his arms were shaking where they supported his weight. Correction: where his right arm supported his weight. His left was curled up close to his body. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Never better,” he said through gritted teeth, and well, Harry didn’t have to be a genius to know _that_ was a lie.

“It’s the…it’s the Dark Mark, isn’t it?” he said, unable to keep the tremble from his voice. Voldemort was upping his torture, attacking Snape’s Mark even more, he was certain of it.

Snape dipped his head, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was a nod or if it was getting harder to stay upright. “Get. Kneader,” he grunted, and Harry didn’t have to be told twice.

“Mr. Kneader!” he yelled, then cringed, as the front door slammed against the wall. He’d probably worry later that he’d dinged Kneader’s wall and hope to Merlin that the man didn’t hate him for it. He’d already destroyed his lamp the last time he’d been here. He ran for the kitchen. “Mr. Kneader!”

He nearly ran head-first into the older man, who caught him by the shoulders as they met in the doorway to the kitchen. The man seemed surprised but alert, and Harry figured he had to be used to sudden emergencies after so many years as a mediwizard, and now as the keeper of an Order safe house. He didn’t wait for Kneader to ask, only gasped, “Snape,” grabbed his arm, and dragged him toward the front door. To the man’s credit, he didn’t hesitate or resist, only allowed Harry to pull him along.

Snape had managed to move so that he was leaning against a porch railing. He was still clutching his arm to his body, and he looked pale. Too pale. Kneader knelt next to him and Harry dropped to his other side, trying to hide how much he was trembling.

“I think it’s his Dark Mark,” he whispered, as if now that help had arrived, saying it any louder would give it too much power.

“Severus?” prompted Kneader as he placed a hand to his forehead and then checked both eyes.

Snape squinted against the light and grunted what Harry thought was supposed to be a yes. With effort, he put out his left arm. When Kneader pulled up the sleeve, Harry sucked in a sharp breath. The Mark was jet black and writhing furiously on his skin, which was an angry red color and clearly inflamed. It looked so painful that Harry had to look away.

Kneader calmly replaced the sleeve and gently pulled Snape’s arm around his own shoulder. “Will you please assist me, Mr. Potter? I think Professor Snape will be more comfortable inside.” Between the two of them, they managed to help Snape move to a bed in the infirmary room. If anything, that frightened Harry more, for the professor could barely help them move him.

The moment they got him to the bed, he curled up slightly on his side, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

Kneader reached for a few potions and sat at Snape’s side. “How long has it been like this, Severus?”

Snape took a deep, shuddering breath before answering tightly, “Few minutes. Has been…getting worse…past week. Never this bad.” His eyes darted to the potions vials. “Those…won’t work.”

Kneader was examining his arm again. “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But what’s the harm in trying, eh?”

“I’ve tried—” He broke off with a grunt, then ground out, “everything you can think of, old man. It won’t work.” He drew in a sudden breath and let it out through his teeth, and his eyes darted around the room, catching on Harry. He paled even more, which Harry hadn’t thought possible.

Harry fidgeted in place, moving from one foot to the other, and hesitantly stepped closer to the bed. He felt entirely useless right now, not sure what he should be doing, but he wanted to do _something_ to help. “Should I maybe…get some water? Or something?” he asked to the room in general.

“Go,” grunted Snape. “Wait…outside.”

“But—”

“Go!” Snape yelled and then winced as if that had physically hurt. Which it probably had.

“Water would be a fine idea, if you please,” said Kneader politely. He didn’t look up as he carefully rubbed a small amount of ointment on Snape’s arm. The professor flinched but didn’t draw away. “Leave it inside the door, then wait in the living room. I will be out shortly.”

He hurried to the kitchen and back quickly, and it only took one more glare from Snape to hasten his retreat to the living room. He only thought about eavesdropping for a split second before the sinking feeling in his stomach convinced him not to. Snape deserved his privacy, especially on his sickbed. And if he didn’t want Harry there, well…it was hardly surprising. The man didn’t like to show weakness. He’d been hiding the pain of his Mark for weeks in front of Harry, even when it was so bad that he didn’t do it very well. It was no surprise that he didn’t want Harry to see him now, at his very worst.

Despite still trembling, he couldn’t sit, so he paced the room until after about fifty million minutes, Kneader was there. He stopped his pacing and eyed the older man nervously. He was afraid to ask if Snape would be okay, so he stood in silence, waiting for Kneader to speak first.

The man watched him in return for a few seconds, his sharp eyes taking in Harry’s wrecked state. “You must be hungry,” he finally said calmly, as if Harry wasn’t worried out of his mind, and made his way to the kitchen, waving for him to follow. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“I’m not…” he started, but Kneader was already gone, and so he followed obediently. He stopped inside the door and watched as Kneader cast a warming charm on a bowl of soup and a sandwich on the table, then gestured for Harry to sit. He didn’t sit. “How is he?”

“He is resting,” came the brief reply. Harry narrowed his eyes, ready to be as stubborn as he needed to be to get some answers, but Kneader only took a seat across the table. “Why don’t we eat while we talk?”

And okay, Harry could aim for civility while he grilled the man for information. He sat and took a quick bite of his sandwich, not tasting it one bit. The second he swallowed, he repeated, “How is he?”

“He is in pain,” Kneader answered simply. “I’ve done what I can, but there are few remedies available to me to combat such dark magic. He may be incapacitated for some time.”

“But he isn’t…I mean, he’s going to be okay eventually?” He didn’t know why he asked. Even he knew the answer to that question. As long as Snape was marked and as long as Voldemort was powerful enough to affect him through it, he wouldn’t be okay. Not by a long shot. He sighed and didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he asked, “He’s not in danger of…you know.” He couldn’t say _dying_. The word was too awful to ask aloud. He swallowed hard. “Is he?”

“Not today.” But the man’s eyes didn’t hide the truth, that Snape’s future wasn’t guaranteed very far beyond that. Harry almost looked away at the pity in Kneader’s eyes, but he appreciated that the man didn’t lie to him. Kneader went on, “I’ve alerted Professor Dumbledore of the situation. He should be here soon to see Professor Snape. I reckon he’ll be taking you back to Hogwarts before dinner.”

“Is Snape staying here?”

“For now.”

“Then so am I.”

“Mr. Potter—”

“I know I should ask. It’s your place, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not leaving him like this. So if I have to be the world’s rudest house guest and chain myself to the living room sofa when you try to kick me out, then you should know that that’s exactly what I’m prepared to do.” He stared down the mediwizard, hoping that conveyed that he meant business.

Kneader’s lips lifted into a soft smile. “You are rather more like Severus than either of you would care to admit.”

Harry let himself relax minutely. That wasn’t a no.

“Eh. Pardon,” Kneader said, chagrined. “Professor Snape. I rarely see him around students, you know. The formality takes some getting used to.”

“You can call him S—um, Severus with me,” said Harry. The name sounded strange on his tongue, but not so strange as it would have last year. “At least until he gets up and chews you out for it.” He tried to smile, but it came out wobbly, so he stirred his soup to have something to do and offered, “And, um, you can call me Harry if you want. I don’t mind.” He was surprised that he didn’t. He still didn’t know Kneader well, but he liked the man’s honesty. And he liked that unlike most adults who had formed opinions about Harry before meeting him, Kneader was open to forming new opinions after actually getting to know him. Harry wasn’t sure that the man liked him per se, but he was being nice to him, which is more than he’d expected the first time they’d met. He added lightly, “I’m thinking it might be harder for you to kick me out, if we’re on a first name basis.”

Kneader chuckled softly, and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

“So…are you? Going to kick me out when Dumbledore gets here?” Harry asked.

Kneader studied him for a minute. “No. No, I don’t think that I will.” He answered Harry’s grateful smile with one of his own, but he cautioned, “You still must convince your headmaster. Should he decide that you must return to school at once, I daresay that no chains will hold you here against his will.”

Harry wrinkled his nose at the snag, but he figured he stood a good chance. Not only did the headmaster like that Snape and Harry were closer now, Harry was getting pretty good at arguing his case. Worst case scenario, he could pull out the guilt card. Dumbledore had a lot of things to feel bad about where Harry was concerned. He didn’t want to use that to his advantage, but he would. There’s no way he could go back to Hogwarts tonight, not knowing whether Snape was going to be okay.

“You have been good for him,” Kneader commented.

Harry looked up, surprised. “Who? Snape?”

“Yes.”

Harry watched him for a few moments, but Kneader was casually eating his soup, giving nothing of his thoughts away. He finally said, “He’s been good for me too.”

Kneader nodded and leaned back, satisfied.

He played with his spoon for a minute before leaning forward. “Mr. Kneader. Just tell me. Out loud. Is he…is it going to kill him?” He swallowed. “I promise I can handle it,” he lied.

Kneader cocked his head at Harry, studying him, before he answered, softly and gruffly at the same time, “I can’t know for certain how long. But…yes. Sooner or later. His body can only take so much of this.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to ignore the buzzing in his ears. “I thought it was only his arm.”

“Dark magic does not contain itself, not as we might wish,” said Kneader gently. “The Dark Mark is localized, yes, but the magic of the Mark has spread throughout his body. Even amputation would not reverse the damage.”

Harry shuddered at the thought, but asked hopefully, “But you could…do that? Cut it off? Keep it from getting worse?” Snape might well rather die before losing an arm, but Harry, for one, would rather keep a one-armed Snape around than lose him altogether.

Kneader shook his head. “You Know Who anticipated that, I’m afraid. It may halt his ability to cause localized pain, but he’ll still be able to attack Severus through the Mark’s residual magic in his body. It might buy some time, but it will not save him.”

Harry blinked fast against a rush of emotion, and he looked away. He might sort of like Kneader now, but that didn’t mean he wanted the man to see him cry.

After a couple minutes, he cleared his throat and asked, “Does he… Does Snape know?”

Kneader shook his head. “You should probably ask him that question.”

Harry studied the man’s schooled expression and sighed. “I don’t have to, do I? He’s the smartest wizard I know, and he knows Voldemort better than anyone. Of course he knows. Has known for a while.” He noted that Kneader didn’t shudder at Voldemort’s name or make a fuss over it, which made Harry respect him even more. But that pity was back in his eyes, so Harry looked away again.

Kneader relented. “He believed he had time. He would not have wished to worry you when you’ve had enough on your plate.”

“You’ve talked to him? About me? Since we’ve been back?”

The man’s lips quirked up. “No. Not as such. Severus is quite tight-lipped, as you’ve probably noticed.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “No, hadn’t noticed. At all,” he drawled.

“Unfortunately for him, I am quite perceptive.”

Harry raised his pointer finger in the air. “Now that I _have_ noticed.”

Kneader smiled. “I reckon you’d like to know what I’ve noticed, eh?”

Harry pushed his half-empty soup bowl to the side and leaned his arms on the table expectantly. Kneader chuckled again, and Harry thought it was a nice sound. Warm but rough, like he was somebody who liked to laugh but didn’t do it very often.

“Severus has consulted with me over the Mark,” he said. “Dumbledore too. I’m afraid I haven’t been of much help.” He shook his head sadly. “He was reaching the end of his rope. I reckon Dumbledore was considering yanking him from his duties.” He eyed Harry, probably considering how much to share with a student, and Harry tried to put on his best _you can trust me_ face. It must have worked, for he continued, “He was giving up. Very nearly had. Then…” He snapped a finger. “Like that. He regained his focus. His fight. A man like Severus? I reckon the only thing that does that is being needed. By somebody he cares enough about to stick around for.” He took a sip of water and eyed Harry over the rim. “Know anybody who fits that bill?”

Harry felt warm, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to embarrassment or to the warm-blanket type of feeling he got at hearing that Snape thought he was somebody worth sticking around for. Maybe both. He wasn’t sure what to say.

Kneader didn’t wait for a response. “That boy in there,” he jabbed a thumb in the general direction of Snape’s room, and under less serious circumstances, Harry would have snickered at Snape being called a boy, “likes to dance around his feelings. And I’d wager you’re accustomed to fair bit of dancing yourself. So in the interest of being a nosy busybody, which, quite frankly, I so rarely get to be, I’m going to tell it to you straight. Severus cares about you. And he wants you to know it, but he doesn’t want you to know how much, and now that You Know Who has got his hooks deeper in him, he’s going to be mucking about in that muddled head of his waffling over whether to cut you loose now so you don’t have to see the end of him. Don’t let him. Do that stubborn thing you do. You’re the best chance I’ve got of keeping him fighting this thing.”

Harry blinked at what was definitely not wetness behind his eyes. Nope. He blinked harder. “You… You think he can still fight it? You said…”

“I think the longer we can drag this out, the more time we have to come up new ideas. And you never know when the latest new idea could be what fixes the problem. Even long shots have got a shot, eh?”

Harry nodded, grasping onto that hope. And also clinging to the hope of an idea that wasn’t exactly new. An idea that was swirling around and around in his mind, that Snape would murder him for so much as thinking…

Kneader lifted his head at something that Harry couldn’t hear, then abruptly stood. “That’ll be Dumbledore. I’ll be wanting to chat with him for a bit. Call on Mimsy if you need anything, yes?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t bother asking if he could come. Kneader clearly wanted to talk to Dumbledore alone first, and Snape clearly didn’t want Harry to sit in on them talking about his Dark Mark. He tore off a piece of bread and nibbled on it distractedly.

“Mr. Kneader?” he called to the man’s retreating back. “Um, thank you.”

Kneader paused to glance back, that warm look in his eyes. “You are very welcome, Harry Potter.”

And like that, he was alone again. Which was fine. The other reason he didn’t ask to talk to Dumbledore just yet was that being alone gave him time to think.

Because to hell with this curse that seemed to have permeated his entire life, that made him lose any grown-up he started to really care about! He was through with being left all alone in life because Voldemort decided it would be cool to orphan him, and then Bellatrix had decided he could stand to lose even more, and now Voldemort wanted to take away his last lifeline, one that Harry had found in the most unlikely of places. If Voldemort thought he could take one more person away from Harry, he had another thing coming! He narrowed his eyes, resolved to do ‘that stubborn thing’ he was good at doing, only not in quite the way Kneader had asked of him.

He only needed a plan.

Namely, the plan of how he was going to convince Dumbledore to let him help. And if that didn’t work, then the plan of how he was going to convince Dumbledore that he’d given in so that he could sneak behind his back and do it anyway.

One way or another, Harry was going to Legilimize Voldemort.

Tonight.


	58. The Third Battle

He won the first battle before it even started.

Harry knew it by the look in Dumbledore’s eyes, like he saw right through him. It was all there: worry, pain, hope, and _knowing_ , even amidst the calm of a man accustomed to not allowing himself to be ruffled by life and death situations. Or perhaps of a man who had been through so many life and death situations that they had lost the ability to ruffle him? Whatever the reason for Dumbledore’s steadiness, his eyes held grief. And in that moment, Harry saw a man who called his most cantankerous teacher “my boy” and cared not only whether he lived or died, but about his happiness too.

Dumbledore didn’t want to lose Snape any more than Harry did.

Dumbledore was also generally more willing than Snape to allow Harry to take risks.

And Harry knew. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it, are you?” He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, exactly like Snape did whenever he was deep in thought. It made him feel better, closer to the man somehow, to emulate him right now.

“Would it do any good?” Dumbledore asked calmly as he slipped into the chair that Kneader had vacated only thirty minutes earlier.

Harry shook his head no and pinched his lips together. He hadn’t moved from his spot at the table, but his mind had traveled vast distances, thinking and planning and preparing. For this moment, yes, but mainly for the moment he would Legilimize Voldemort. He didn’t know precisely how to go about it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to try. And succeed. At any cost.

“I mean,” he said, trying to inject lightness into his tone, but his voice was too tight to carry it off well, “you can always force me back to school. But you can’t stop me from trying wherever I am. You can’t take _this_ away.” He tapped at the scar on his forehead.

Dumbledore gave him a kind smile. “I will not be forcing you to return to school today, Harry.”

“Good.” He sat up straight. “That’s…good.”

The headmaster’s eyes were sad as he said, “It will not be easy, what you wish to do. You and I both know that you are not as ready to meet Voldemort in a battle of minds as you should be. Professor Snape’s concerns are quite valid. Accessing such a mind as his will not be an easy task, and it is not without substantial risks to your own mind.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But Professor Snape needs me to be ready now. So I will be.” He shrugged, too stiff to be nonchalant, but he knew by Dumbledore’s slow nod that his message had been received.

“Then we’d best get to work preparing your mind for the challenge.”

And that was that.

* * *

It turned out that the headmaster wasn’t a bad Legilimency teacher. Not that Harry was about to trade Snape in or anything, but Dumbledore was patient and direct, even about things outside his frame of reference.

After all, “it hasn’t been done before, you realize.” The headmaster raised his eyebrows. “Not quite like this. Or if it has, it has not been recorded for posterity.” He gestured to Harry’s scar. “Your bond with Voldemort is unique. I can help to direct you, but when push comes to shove, you will be relying primarily on your own instinct. Fortunately, you are no stranger to your own instinct. It has served you well thus far. When combined with what Professor Snape tells me is a natural aptitude for the mental arts, as well as the increased power that Voldemort has already bestowed upon you, there are quite a few marks in your favor.”

They had moved to the living area, and they were alone; he hadn’t seen Kneader since the man had left the kitchen earlier. He nodded, slightly reassured, and eyed Dumbledore, where he sat across from his own sofa in a comfortable-looking armchair. “How…how are _Voldemort’s_ instincts?”

“Quite good,” said Dumbledore almost apologetically. “He did not get to where he is without that, in addition to his skill and intelligence.”

Harry sighed, trying not to let his nervousness show. He already knew Voldemort was skilled at the mental arts and was very powerful. As comforting as it was to be on the receiving end of Dumbledore’s pep talks, he wasn’t all that certain he had any special abilities that Voldemort didn’t already possess in greater amounts.

When he voiced that concern out loud, Dumbledore’s answer was predictably, “Love. Remember, Harry, you have love and honor and a desire to do good. Those are things that Voldemort cannot understand, and so underestimates. You also have the ability to draw power from him through your mental connection, an ability that he does not seem to possess.” He then said softly, “Harry. I am well aware that I am allowing you to take a very large risk. Also that Professor Snape may well never forgive me for allowing you to do so. But you must know that if I did not truly believe that you have the ability to pull this off, I would do everything in my power to prevent you from attempting it.”

“It’s not like I gave you a choice,” Harry pointed out.

Dumbledore smiled, his first open, genuine smile since he’d arrived. “My dear boy, you may very well be on your way to besting me in raw magical power, but I still have quite a few years of experience on you, not to mention creative methods at my disposal. Never doubt that I am the one making the choice here. The moment I decide to prevent you from doing something, you will most decidedly _not_ be doing it.”

Harry narrowed his eyes and then shrugged sheepishly, because yeah, he knew who held the real power around here, and there was little point in denying it. “Okay, so where to begin?”

“You already have a conduit for access into Voldemort’s mind.” He gestured to Harry’s scar. “ _How_ you use it can only be instinctual, not something to be learned. It will be your first great hurdle to overcome. We have reviewed techniques for directing your mind once inside. Now we must determine precisely _what_ you will accomplish.”

Harry scratched his nose and looked away, embarrassed to admit how hazy his plan truly was. “I figured I could…I dunno, just soak up more of his powers? Each time our minds have been connected lately, that seems to happen. So maybe if I hold on long enough, and try it on purpose this time, I’ll take away enough power so that he won’t be able to hurt Professor Snape anymore?”

“You are going in the right direction, certainly,” Dumbledore hummed, “though such a plan is somewhat underdeveloped. For instance, even at regular strength, Voldemort can cause pain to Professor Snape’s Mark. Not quite so much, certainly, and nor for an extended time or to such an immediately dire end, but enough to continue to cause damage. And do you think that you will be able to drain him of so much power at once? Or to defeat him all at once, on your first attempt? Or if not, that you will then be able to determine when a sufficient level has been reached? And that is, of course, assuming that the power transfer between the two of you works as we have theorized. Furthermore, such a plan does nothing for the dark magic already permeating Professor Snape’s body.”

He stared at the headmaster for the span of several seconds and breathed, “Okay. So…we’re not going with my plan, then. What’s yours? Because I know you’ve got one, and I assume it’s a million times better than mine.”

Dumbledore smiled, a hint of a twinkle showing in his eyes. “Might I suggest a limited attack?”

“Limited?”

“You desire to attack Voldemort’s mind, and to draw away his powers. A worthy end, yes, but perhaps more ambitious than is called for under the present circumstances.”

“You don’t want me to…beat him?”

“Oh, yes, my boy. Yes, I most definitely do. And I believe that you will do a fine job thoroughly besting him…someday. But it does no one, least of all yourself, any good for you to bite off more than you can chew at present.” He held up a hand. “I propose a more direct route, one that may not be so injurious to him, but better accomplishes your end. Invade his mind not to attack it, but to attack his connection to the Dark Mark.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, that’s what I want to…do…” He stopped to consider Dumbledore’s words. “Wait. That can be done without…? I thought…” He didn’t know what he thought, or even what Dumbledore was proposing, but it seemed so obvious. He’d thought he had to prevent Voldemort from being powerful enough to cause damage through the Mark. He hadn’t even considered that there might be a way to simply sever the connection. “Why didn’t Professor Snape tell me that was possible?” He huffed and then answered his own question, “Never mind. He didn’t want to give me any ideas, that’s why. But how do I even do it?”

Dumbledore smiled. “By using the Dark Mark as a secondary conduit. More of a map or a guide, if you will, than a conduit. Of course, I may need to render the professor unconscious first,” said Dumbledore dryly, “as you will likely need direct contact with his Mark and he will be quite unlikely to agree to such a thing.”

Harry grimaced at the thought of Snape’s reaction. Maybe they could avoid letting Snape in on the plan until after it was done? Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, that sort of thing. “Is that something you would do?” he asked tentatively. “Knock him out?” He knew he was disobeying the professor in even attempting this, but going so far as to take away the man’s free will over his own body seemed wrong on another level.

Dumbledore smiled gently. “I would do a great many things for his own good. Let us hope that it does not come to that.”

Judging by Snape’s expression when they entered the room later in the day, Harry thought that it may have to come to that. The man was alone, propped up in bed, pale, and shuddering occasionally, but Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he observed that Snape at least looked better. He was shaky but not doubled over in pain like he had been earlier. His eyes were pinched with pain and fatigue, but that didn’t stop him from taking one look at Harry with Dumbledore, scowling, and telling them to “get out.”

Dumbledore calmly approached the bed, gesturing for Harry to follow. “Harry wished to see how you were doing. Perhaps you would like to reassure him that you are feeling better?”

“That is not why you—” Snape grimaced and continued in a strained voice, “are here. I am no simpleton. That boy,” he pointed with a shaking hand at Harry without looking at him, “will not be your pawn today.”

“Now Severus,” said Dumbledore gently. “Let us discuss—”

“I do not care to _discuss._ ” He took a shaky breath and encompassed both in his best death glare. “Get out.”

“But—” Harry tried to argue but was cut off by another protest from Snape. He cleared his throat and said tentatively, “Um, Professor Dumbledore? Could I maybe talk to Professor Snape alone for a few minutes?”

“No.” Snape grunted. He pushed himself more upright and winced. “You will go back to school.”

He bit his lip and decided he may as well go for broke. “And may I also have permission to disregard anything he tells me in the next couple minutes? Like…like a temporary carte blanche on the whole disrespecting professors thing? You know, without chancing a detention?”

“Dumbledore,” Snape actually _growled_ , and Harry was rather glad that he wasn’t looking at the man’s face right then. It was probably livid.

The headmaster made a show of pretending to consider, but he didn’t fool either one of them; his eyes were pleased. “I _suppose_ a temporary suspension of consequences could be arranged.”

“Albus,” warned Snape.

“Very well, carte blanche it is.” He gave Harry a pat on the shoulder as he moved past him to the door. “Do _try_ not to kill each other, as that is quite the opposite of what we are attempting to do today, hmm?” he said and then closed the door, leaving Harry alone with Snape.

“Why not simply spell me asleep and be done with it?” bit out Snape. Harry pretended not to notice the tremor that ran through the man’s voice. “Why go through the charade of pretending to gain my cooperation?”

Harry didn’t mention that the option was still on the table. But then, Snape knew Dumbledore well enough to know that. Instead, he sat by Snape’s bedside and tried to figure out how to begin. It wasn’t as if appeals would work, and Snape was too intelligent to be managed.

“Wear me down with silence? That is to be your tactic?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I don’t…I don’t have a tactic.”

“How like a Gryffindor,” Snape scoffed, which shouldn’t have made Harry happy, but it did. If Snape had enough energy to sit up and to argue and to scoff, then he wasn’t quite on his death bed, was he? It made Harry feel brave, knowing that they had some time, that the pain from earlier in the day seemed to have lessened. “You won’t convince me,” added Snape. “You are not ready to reach into the Dark Lord’s mind, and I will not be the one responsible for your demise.”

Harry nodded. “I know. I…uh, that’s not why I asked Dumbledore to go. Not so I could talk you into it.”

Snape’s face showed his suspicion.

Harry leaned forward and looked Snape in the eye. “Look. I know we’re not going to be on the same side of things this time, but the thing is, I’m not going to let you die. So, permission or no, I’m doing this. I just—”

“You gave me your word,” spat Snape. “Your word that you would not attempt such a thing until _both_ the headmaster and I deemed you ready.”

Harry looked away. Snape was good, he’d give him that. He knew just where to hit to give Harry the most pause. “I…shouldn’t have promised that.”

“And yet you did. So. Are you a man of your word, Mr. Potter?”

He met Snape’s eyes, his answer clear without having to give voice to it.

Snape’s lip curled. “So your word is worth nothing.”

Harry swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “I told you once that I didn't know if I could keep a promise if there was a really, really good reason to break it. I don’t know what kind of person that makes me. I just…I can’t let you die while I can do something about it.”

“And you think that I will sit back and watch _you_ die on my behalf?” Snape’s eyes were black with anger, a stark contrast to his pale skin. “You think so little of _me?_ ”

Harry shook his head. “You’re the bravest man I know,” he said honestly, and he saw some of Snape’s anger seep away at the compliment, though his eyes still flashed. “You’re not afraid to die if it means doing the right thing. I’m only saying, I disagree with you about what’s the right thing to do here.” And before Snape could say whatever biting remark he had on his tongue next, Harry said, “I remember the cabin, you know.”

Snape frowned in confusion.

“After…after you got me out, after You-Know-Who…when you took care of me,” he explained awkwardly, and Snape’s expression cleared in understanding, only to tighten again. “I don’t remember a lot before I woke up that next morning, only bits and pieces, but I dream about it, some nights.”

“I fail to see how that relates to our current discussion,” Snape snapped, though there was uncertainty in his eyes.

“Most of it is hazy, but I remember a couple things clearly, I think. Mainly what you told me about Sirius.” Snape didn’t say anything, so Harry took that as permission to continue. “You said he would have done right by me, if he could have. That he would have seen me as more than my dad’s son if he’d had more time.” He looked down at his hands. “You also said I couldn’t use a Time-Turner to save him.”

“Again, I fail to see how—”

“You _have_ had time,” Harry interrupted and hated that his voice shook. “You don’t see me as just my dad’s son anymore. You see _me_. _Harry_. Do you know how difficult it was to get here?” He laughed a hollow laugh. “Of course you do. We’ve been in this together for what feels like ages now.” He abruptly stood and began to pace. “And the thing is, I know you’re trying to do right by me, in a way Sirius never could, and I appreciate it, really I do, but you’re going about it the wrong way, because that’s not what I _need_. I don’t need you to protect me from You-Know-Who. I mean, sometimes I do, obviously, but not _every_ time. That’s not something anybody can even do, really, because he’s _here_.” He pointed to his scar. “He’s here, in my head, and he’s not going away, and this, what I’m doing today, it’s not something you can protect me from. It’s going to happen eventually, whether it’s today or tomorrow or next year, but if you don’t let me do it _today_ , then when I _do_ , you’ll be gone and I’ll be all alone. And no Time-Turner will be able to bring you back.”

“You will not be alone,” said Snape, his voice almost subdued. “Dumbledore—”

“Isn’t you,” Harry said fiercely. “He can help with some things, but he’s got the entire war to worry about. When push comes to shove, you’re the one I need, the one who can help me with just _my part_. So yes, I want to save you because I’ll miss you, and because I’m grateful to you and don’t want yet one more person in my life to die on me, but more than that, I _need_ you. Not only yesterday or today, but a whole lot of tomorrows too. You and I… _we’re not done._ ”

“You will not have a tomorrow if you die today,” shot back Snape, but his tone lacked bite, so Harry knew his words were getting through.

“I won’t die today. I can do this, and even if something goes wrong, I’ll be with two Legilimens and a Healer.”

“It is not so simple!”

“It rarely is!” Harry said fervently and moved closer to the bed. “I know Dumbledore told you the second prophecy, the one about you helping me defeat You-Know-Who. We’ve only ever danced around it, you and I, but the prophecy is true. I feel its truth in my bones. I knew it was true even when my head told me it couldn’t be. _I need you_ if I’m going to best You-Know-Who. If I don’t face him today—not in every way, just enough to do something about that,” he gestured sharply to Snape’s bandaged arm, “and with you right next to me—then you won’t be there to help me when the stakes are even higher and the danger is even greater.”

Snape had stopped looking at him and was staring at the wall. When he didn’t say anything for several long seconds, Harry threw himself into the chair and groaned. “Look. I _know_ you’re trying to protect me by being all brave and self-sacrificing so I don’t have to be the one taking a big risk here. But don’t you see? _You’re_ my best shot. You even said I don’t have anybody else really looking out for me, not in the way I need. Do you honestly think there’s _anyone else_ who will try as hard as you will to both take You-Know-Who down _and_ keep me alive?”

Snape clenched his jaw, but he still didn’t say anything, and Harry didn’t know whether to call that a win or a loss. He shifted after several long minutes of charged silence, and his eyes settled on the bedside table and an empty glass. “Do you want some water?” he asked, just to break the silence.

“What?” Snape frowned and glanced at the glass, then up at Harry. “No.” His gaze turned accusing. “You said you weren’t trying to talk me into it.”

Harry sighed. “I’m not. I only wanted you to understand why I’m not backing down, so maybe you’ll have a slightly better chance of forgiving me after.”

He held Snape’s gaze for a long time, and he wished he knew what the man was thinking, but his spy face was in place. All he knew was that he wasn’t being Legilimized. Snape hadn’t done that to him without permission in a long time.

“I don’t think you know,” Snape said without breaking eye contact, “quite how much you have upended my world.”

Harry bit his lip and forced himself not to reply with a “sorry.” He didn’t think it was that kind of situation. It might even be a “you’re welcome” type of situation. He waited for Snape to clarify.

“I was unprepared for you. As you well know.” He shook his head and looked down at his wrapped arm. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly through pinched lips. “I had been quite prepared to die for some time. Had no qualms about it. Welcomed the idea.” He shook his head again and studied Harry. “I had no idea one foolish, headstrong, _maddening_ Gryffindor could change that.”

Harry felt his lips lift into a soft smile. “You want to live. That’s good. I can work with that.”

“ _Thoroughly_ maddening Gryffindor,” said Snape, but the way he said it, with something nearing affection, made Harry’s smile grow.

“So..?” he asked hopefully.

“I cannot agree.”

Harry’s smile fell.

“However.” Snape closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and pierced Harry with a resigned stare. “If you and Dumbledore are determined to circumvent me, and I can see that you are, I am hardly going to allow you to risk yourself without my oversight.”

Harry bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. “So…no, I can’t do it, but yes, you’ll help me anyway?”

Snape reluctantly nodded at the backwards yes, and it was all Harry could do not to smile at having won his second battle. But the feeling of unexpected victory was too much to contain, and before he knew it, he was not only smiling, he was out of his chair with his arms around the professor. It only occurred to him after he was already hugging Snape—who’d gone completely still against his pillows—that this still wasn’t quite the nature of their relationship. His face grew hot and he was about to pull back when he felt the man reach around with his right arm and gently rest a hand on his back. His smile grew and he let himself stay for a couple seconds longer, then hastily withdrew and bolted for the door to usher Dumbledore in before Snape could see either his flushed cheeks or his wide grin.

* * *

“Gently.”

“Not _too_ gently. Force will be necessary to break through.”

“But not too much force. It will alert him to your presence.”

“We both know that will be unavoidable for long, Severus.”

“And yet avoiding it for as long as possible is what he will do!”

Harry worked out a kink in his neck and took a break from looking back and forth between the professors like a spectator at a tennis match. He was pretty sure that Snape was dragging this out, delaying the inevitable for as long as he could, and he might have been affronted by that if not for the fact that he himself was nervous to begin. That, and he knew Snape wouldn’t be able to keep up his delay tactics for much longer. The Dark Mark seemed to still be giving him a break from the more debilitating pain, but the man was looking more haggard the longer he was awake. Judging by the droop of his shoulders and the lines on his face, he was utterly exhausted. He already had drifted lower onto the bed, unable to keep himself in a fully sitting position.

Dumbledore hadn’t been too surprised that Snape was now cooperating, albeit “under considerable protest and duress,” as Snape put it. He’d simply placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and casually winked at him before getting down to the business of discussing how Harry should go about beginning his efforts to Legilimize Voldemort.

Because he was actually about to _Legilimize Voldemort_.

He hid his shaking hands in his lap. It was starting to feel a bit too real, what he was about to do. He glanced over at Kneader, where he had taken up vigil at the foot of the bed after unwrapping Snape’s arm. The mediwizard gave him a soft smile and an encouraging nod. The nod somehow, without a sound, conveyed that he didn’t doubt Harry’s abilities and that he wished him luck. It really was better than any pep talk he might have given, and Harry nodded back, squared his shoulders, and moved his chair closer to Snape’s bed.

He eyed the Dark Mark with disgust. It was still writhing over irritated skin, and Snape’s muscles were spasming even while he spoke to Dumbledore. He took a fortifying breath as he placed his hands on the bed near Snape’s arm, his stomach clenching at the amount of pain the professor must have grown used to tolerating over the past several weeks. He wouldn’t quite know how to do what he needed to do until he tried it, but Dumbledore seemed to think that close contact with the Mark was key. He didn’t realize all talking had ceased until Dumbledore’s hand settled on his shoulder and he said to, “Take your time. Calm your mind. Do not begin until you feel ready to do so. Professor Snape and I are right here, should you need assistance with Legilimency, and Mr. Kneader will be keeping an eye on your and Professor Snape’s physical conditions. All right?”

Harry gave a jerky nod. Well. It _wasn’t_ all right. He was afraid, no matter how determined he was to do this. He didn’t want to, not really, but he wanted Snape to be okay, so he _did_ want to. He pretended to be more confident than he felt, for his own sake more than for anyone else’s.

There really was no motivation like desperation, was there?

He let his fingers skim above the surface of Snape’s Dark Mark, not quite touching it. His scar was prickling, probably due to Voldemort’s heightened activity on the Mark. He glanced up at Snape, seeking permission, which the man gave with a frown and a sharp nod.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to the three men in the room. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

Which turned out to be the literal truth. He put his hands gently on Snape’s arm over the Dark Mark, not certain if he needed to touch it, but figuring it would probably help if he was supposed to use it somehow. Snape flinched, and his own scar twinged in pain. He breathed deeply a few times until the pain lessened and he got used to the residual discomfort, and then he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, and…

Nothing.

After about five minutes of nothing, he cracked open an eye. Snape, Dumbledore, and Kneader were watching him intently, and he cleared his throat. “I…uh, know you have to keep an eye on me and all, but maybe you could…I dunno, _pretend_ not to? I’m trying to do the whole instinct thing, and my, ah…instinct doesn’t like the hovering.”

Dumbledore smiled reassuringly and set up chairs for himself and Kneader away from the bed, closer to the door. They were still watching him from their seats, but the feeling of being hovered over lessened. He smiled and nodded in gratitude, then turned to Snape.

“I am already pretending to go along with this scheme,” the professor snarked. “I am fresh out of any more ability to ‘pretend.’” He eyed Harry in such a way that, even through tired eyes, communicated that he was very well going to keep a close eye on him, and Harry was going to have to deal with it.

And, okay, that was fair, seeing as how Harry was currently attached to Snape’s arm and all.

He braced himself and tried to reach out with his mind and failed again, and he thought it was probably not good that he’d barely begun and he wanted to throw up his hands in defeat. He didn’t know what in Merlin’s name he was doing! He reached up a hand to rub at his eyes. After a moment, a hand grasped his wrist and drew it back down to the Mark. Harry aimed a questioning glance at Snape.

“Close your eyes,” the professor quietly instructed, and Harry obeyed. “Build your mental shields.” He cracked open his eyes to ask, or to argue, he wasn’t even sure which, but Snape squeezed his wrist until he closed his eyes again, then murmured, “You have grown accustomed to reaching outside yourself for power, but the magic you need concern yourself with is _inside_ , within your very core. Reach for that magic inside you, build and stabilize it through your Occlumency shields, and then—and only then—slowly gather more power to yourself. You will find yourself better able to control it.”

Harry bit his lip. “That might take a while.”

“As it should,” cut in Dumbledore. “We have all night. Needlessly speeding up the process will not better enable you to succeed.”

Harry pursed his lips and nodded.

“Do not attempt to reach into the Dark Lord’s mind until after your shields are erected and strengthened,” added Snape, though the words seemed dragged out of him. “When your mind is prepared and you are at full power, the connection may occur more naturally than you expect.”

He nodded again, eyes still closed, and dutifully began to erect his Occlumency shields. It didn’t take too incredibly long before he was able to strengthen the shields, and to dig down into the recesses of his mind for more power to pour into them. This was the simple part, the part that he was most familiar with, and yet he felt buoyed by the ease with which he was able to accomplish what had been challenging for him to learn not so very long ago.

But he had yet to tap into his newfound, _extra_ powers in a conscious, purposeful way, and so he was surprised at how natural it felt to do that too. As the power flooded through his body, it was as if he had a new sense, something as natural a part of him as his sight or his hearing, and now that he knew it existed, it was impossible to go back to before. He breathed in and out, in and out, dug for power, built his shields, stabilized them, in and out, dug, built, stabilized, and the longer he gave himself over to the process, and the less he gave thought to what he was doing, the more _alive_ he felt. He lost track of time, only knew that his body was thrumming with magic, and it felt _wonderful_ , and he might have continued on forever if not for being brought to himself by a sharp jerk of the arm in his grasp. He breathed in and out, dug, build, and stabilized, and he tried to not let go of his concentration as he cracked open his eyes to see how Snape was doing.

The professor wasn’t looking at him, but rather at his arm, his eyes wide in amazement. Harry’s concentration faltered as he whipped his head to Snape’s arm, afraid he had hurt him somehow. But where before he’d seen a writhing mess of Dark Mark and spasming muscles, now was only a still image of a serpent on a still arm. The irritated skin was clearing up before his eyes, and he swept his eyes up to Snape in time to see the professor close his own eyes and breathe a sigh of relief.

“I stopped it hurting?” asked Harry in wonder. He hadn’t thought he could help Snape like that, not without getting to Voldemort first. Hating himself for having to test this, he carefully lifted his hands from Snape’s arm and the Mark immediately began to writhe again. He quickly clamped his hands back down on the arm and breathed in and out, dug, built, stabilized, dug, built, stabilized, and the Mark quickly faded to its dormant self. “Sorry,” he winced at Snape’s grimace of pain in that moment. Snape glared his glare that wasn’t a real glare, and Harry tamped down on the urge to apologize for apologizing.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Dumbledore softly from where he’d risen to stand at the foot of the bed. “How remarkable. You have not yet accessed Voldemort’s mind?”

Harry could feel Snape flinch out of habit at the name, but the Dark Mark didn’t move. He lifted his eyes to Snape, who stared back at him in disbelief.

So he could apparently form some sort of barrier between the Dark Mark and Voldemort. Without Legilimency. Without consciously attempting to, even. Huh. That was…that was… _so cool!_ Of course, he couldn’t stay glued to Snape for the rest of his days, so he still needed to Legilimize Voldemort. And he wasn’t going to chance another apology, but he felt bad that he could have been helping Snape all this time and hadn’t bothered to try.

Not that Snape would have let him. But still.

Before Snape and Dumbledore could start discussing this development out loud—he could see how they both wanted to—and break what concentration he still had, he closed his eyes and continued working on his shields. They had surpassed what he’d thought of as full strength by now and were only growing stronger, and in that moment, he understood something about how his new powers worked. His shields weren’t using up his magic, like fuel, or something to be burned away; they were absorbing them, storing them for later. The thicker and taller and stronger he built his shields, the more power he had stored up that he could access at will when he needed to.

The realization made him feel powerful. Like really, _really_ powerful.

And then he felt the sparks. Even with his eyes closed, he knew they would be around him if he only decided to peek. The magic being drawn into his body felt like light: warm, happy, soothing. Pure and warm and invigorating. They illuminated his mind, made clear what he needed to do next. He remembered Snape’s first Occlumency lesson this summer, about making emotion physical, and it made complete sense now, what he needed to do with the magic. It was almost effortless, really, how he became one with the magic and felt it drift through his body, centering in his scar and in his hands and in his chest.

He didn’t warn Snape. He figured he didn’t need to. The man would know by the way he grasped his arm more firmly, spreading out his fingers so that they would touch as much of the Dark Mark as possible. And then with his mind, he _pushed_. Through the scar, right into the darkest, vilest mind he’d never wanted to visit again. He had one pure, joyous moment to celebrate that it had worked—it had actually _worked!_ —before his mind was brought up short.

Where he was…it was _vile_. It was cold and dark. So so dark. He forced himself not to recoil at the overwhelming sense of death and hate and greed, afraid that he would recoil himself right back into his own mind. Instead, he gave himself a long moment to acclimate to his surroundings.

He had been here before, but it was different this time. It was the same mind, only less active. He could not sense conscious thought, only a sense of hot and cold, like being thrown directly from a furnace into a frozen lake, and a rolling mass of what he could only describe as black and filthy sludge. If Snape’s mind was like an ocean and Harry’s like a whirlwind, then Voldemort’s was like a cemetery in a swamp that had been run through by hot lava. Only, worse. Much, much worse.

He wanted to leave. He forced himself to stay.

Another difference was in Harry’s own mind. He had never set out to purposely invade Voldemort’s mind. It had only before happened by accident, and for a few snippets of time. He felt in control this time, like he could think and act for himself, though for how long he didn’t know. At any second Voldemort could realize he was here and—

No. He realized with a sudden understanding why this mind was practically dormant, almost pliable. And why Snape’s Dark Mark had let up from the worst of its pain over the past hour or so. Voldemort was asleep. And if Voldemort was asleep, he was not on his guard. Harry had some time to figure out what he needed to do. Perhaps he could even get in and out without alerting the evil wizard to his presence! Was that likely? Probably not, he admitted to himself. But it was certainly something to strive for. He wanted to laugh at his good fortune. Until he was alerted to a more imminent danger: Voldemort’s mind was so evil, so vile, that the thick sludge was beginning to creep into the crevices of his mind. It was…sticky and foul. And disorienting. And he knew with sudden clarity that simply being here, even without the wizard’s knowledge, endangered his own mind. The darkness around him was like quicksand, bogging him down and making it more difficult to think or to move. He needed to hurry, or he would be too overcome to continue.

He tamped down the panic and calmed his mind. Breathed in and out, like Snape had taught him.

He had a general idea how to direct an attack, but that was not his main concern. _Where_ to direct it…that was the problem he needed to solve. He adjusted his grip on the Dark Mark and became lost for a long moment in the distant sensation of moving his own body while in the mind of another. And then he forced himself to let go of conscious thought and pushed the magic through his fingers, first gently, then a bit harder, then harder, and—

The sensation of falling hit him like a punch to the stomach. His entire body reacted to his mind’s journey: his gut clenched, his shoulders tensed, and his breaths came faster. He forced himself to fall. To not stop himself, but to see where his instinct would lead him, even though it was so _hard_ to let himself go. Falling, falling, falling into a tempest of death, hate, greed, and darkness. Murky darkness at the outer edges of his mind. Darkness enveloping him, broken by the faintest of outlines, as of caverns or dungeons. The stifling feeling of being deep within the earth, too far below to ever see the sun again or to hope for rescue. Tamping down the panic. Ignoring the claustrophobia. Falling, falling, falling, down, down down—

He stopped. It wasn’t a jarring stop, like the hard impact or tumble to the earth that he’d expected. The falling simply…stopped. He existed in the darkness, neither moving nor, it seemed, breathing, until he registered a low hissing in the darkness and began to panic despite his best efforts. He couldn’t help feeling that he’d dropped into a pit of vipers and was about to be attacked at any moment out of the pitch black. His breaths came in shallow panicked gasps, and he knew that they were his real breaths when he felt, in that other world where his body still existed, the whisper of a hand on his chest, the faintest thought that someone was telling him to breathe. It helped. It grounded him. He was real. Snape was real. He was out there, was with him. Had agreed to help, even though he didn’t want Harry to do this. This was real too; not real in the same way, but real. He could do this. He could fight whatever lurked in the darkness. He could fight the darkness itself. He could…

He gasped. It was…was… There was light! Sparks. They were there with him, beating out of him, lighting the darkness, and he felt that soothing warmth that came alongside their magic. _It will be okay_ , he could almost sense them telling him, as if they were fairies to light his way, and he believed them. They fought against the darkness, both within and without. They lit up his surroundings, and he found himself in a place resembling a cave, that black sludge covering the walls, dripping down from the ceiling like long strings of varying length, some thicker than others, some mere stumps. One in particular curled itself up and writhed and hissed as if alive, and he realized with a shock that the strings were snakes. Most were asleep. Some were shriveled up as if dead. Only one moved.

Snape. He knew without a doubt that the snake of black sludge—dark magic? Yes, he thought. The sludge must be dark magic, or at least the residue of dark magic—was the tie binding Snape to Voldemort, and he realized with a disgusted examination of the sleeping snakes how many Death Eaters had taken the Dark Mark and pledged themselves to Voldemort. More than he’d known or dreamed of. He wondered how many had come to regret it and how many would take the Mark all over again. It occurred to him that he could destroy all of the connections, take away Voldemort’s access to his followers, and perhaps even save a few who no longer wished to be bound to him. It was tempting.

Maybe. Later. Snape first. He couldn’t afford to mess this up for his teacher. He focused in on the writhing snake, reassured that it didn’t seem to be aware of his presence. It didn’t pause in its movements, and unless he was mistaken, it didn’t even realize that its access to Snape’s Mark had been temporarily blocked. It mirrored its typical movements on Snape’s arm, and Harry hated Voldemort in that moment for being so determined to cause Snape agony that he could keep up even this level of torture while asleep.

He reached out and brushed against the snake with his mind, testing. It flinched, and he drew back, only to try again, more firmly this time. Probably too firmly, he realized in the next instant.

Because that’s when Voldemort woke up.

And his third battle began.


	59. Epiphany

_Pain._

His mind was being squeezed through a sieve, and the holes were too small, and there was no give, and he was being crushed, and _pain pain pain_. Crushing, blinding _pain_ —

In the next instant, like a drowning man who had taken in his first mouthful of water, it occurred to him to fight. He pushed as hard as he could against the crushing weight, and he felt it ease slightly. Not enough for him to escape its hold, but enough to not die. Yet. He continued to fight, as if his life depended on it.

Which it did.

As did Snape’s.

Rage flooded his veins, and he knew it was Voldemort’s rage, not his own, and it frightened him until he felt the other wizard’s fear, and _he’s afraid of me_ , he thought, and it helped. It gave him the courage to keep pushing, knowing that somebody as powerful as _Voldemort_ could be afraid of him. Of just Harry. And then he couldn’t think anymore, all he could do was fight, because the mind he was Legilimizing was now fully awake, and the dark sludge surrounding him rolled in waves of anger and panic and indignation, and it was all he could do to not drown in a sea of thick, pulsing dark magic.

Memories began to pour through his mind, old memories. _A boy at Ollivanders, gripping a wand, feeling a burst of power for the first time. The same boy, slightly older, casting a spell on a frog. Later, running toward the lake at Hogwarts. Eating chocolate in Hogsmeade—_

He ripped his mind away from the memories, knowing that they were being given to him as a distraction. Voldemort was trying to lead him away from this part of his mind, trying to separate him from the thread of magic that tied him to Snape. Voldemort knew what he was attempting: it was quite obvious why he would be in this part of his mind. The rolling grew worse, and it was like being in an earthquake, or on a ship in a deadly storm, and he couldn’t find his footing. He didn’t know which side was up or whether he would survive. He only knew to meet the crushing force head-on and to not give an inch, because he needed to _stay_. He needed to get back to the snake if he wanted to cut off Voldemort’s access to Snape. He needed to survive, and he needed to not be moved. If he gave up ground, then he would never finish his mission. Voldemort was too powerful. The wizard would never again allow him the opportunity to find his way back here.

Another attack came, this one like a sledgehammer to his temple, and he wasn’t prepared for it, and he felt it so deeply that in that other world, where his body existed, he faintly registered the wash of sticky wetness upon his face, and he knew that his scar had broken open under the strain of Voldemort’s attacks. He screamed, partly from the pain, but mostly as a battle cry. He couldn’t give up. This was too important. He pushed back with all that was in him, and he finally felt Voldemort falter. He took advantage of the small reprieve to pull up the element of air. He grabbed onto it, poured as much of his love for Ron and Hermione into it as possible, and he felt a surge of power, and he knew—he _knew_ —that he’d just somehow manage to siphon more power from Voldemort’s core, and it made him feel almost giddy with power.

He tamped the emotion down quickly. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

But then he was distracted despite himself when a small tear appeared in the cavern, a break in his connection. He breathed harder and frantically tried to repair it. It thickened, trying to draw him away, and Voldemort began to attack from the other side, pummeling his mind until he was flattened and surrounded by the thick blackness of the cave-like wall, and he somehow knew that the tear wasn’t Voldemort’s doing; it was happening within his own mind. Without thinking, he threw himself at both the tear and the attacking wizard. The tornado ripped into Voldemort’s mental force, and he was gaining ground, pushing him back, and the sludge was writhing, tossing him about, and he managed to stay in control, managed to push Voldemort back. He felt _powerful_ , even as he sensed Voldemort regrouping, readying himself to rip Harry apart. But the tear…the tear shrank. And then it pulsed and grew and pulled at him.

And he felt, in that other world, the whisper of a strong hand peeling his own fingers away from Snape’s arm. Hands, other hands, on either side of his head.

Snape. Snape and Dumbledore. _They_ were the cause of the tear, the break within his mind, he realized with sudden clarity. They were trying to break the connection. They were trying to save him from Voldemort, regardless of whether he wanted to be saved.

No! He frantically shook his head, not even knowing if he was doing it physically or inside his own mind, and he felt despair. He wasn’t done! They couldn’t break the connection. If they did, Snape would never have another chance to break free. He would die! Harry couldn’t let Snape die.

He dug in, not sure how tightly he was holding on to Snape’s arm, but certain that it would bruise, and pushed out instinctively with his power until the hands tore from his body as if burned. Unwilling to consider whether he had hurt either of his professors, he immediately attacked within Voldemort’s mind at the dark sludge, which was now attempting to engulf him, to trap him within its depths. He felt himself began to sink into the sticky blackness, like quicksand, his own mind’s attacks managing to keep him sane and alive, but not much else.

He took his attention off his efforts long enough to eye the writhing snake, and he noticed with alarm that more snakes were writhing and hissing and spitting. He knew which was Snape’s, but he also knew that Voldemort had called perhaps a dozen Death Eaters to his aid. He had no idea what they could do to help their master in this situation, but their presence certainly wouldn’t help Harry. He dug into the sludge, trying to use it to brace himself, but instead he sank further into it, and he gave in to a moment of panic before reeling himself back in. He pulled up memories, infused his tornado with as much love as possible, but it was weakening. Voldemort spasmed away briefly, but then he pressed closer, and Harry felt his breath punch out of him. The twister didn’t bother Voldemort as much as before, and Harry knew that it was his own fault. It was becoming difficult to stay alive _and_ not sink _and_ keep his wits about him _and_ attack _and_ infuse his mind with love _while_ worrying that he would be pulled away before he could save Snape.

_Give up, Harry Potter. You will not win._

_No. No. No. No._ He repeated the word over and over, like a mantra in his head, determined to not give in, even while he felt himself sink lower.

_You think yourself strong, but you will never be as strong as I. Never. I will crush you, as I should have done long ago._

Voldemort’s confidence was growing. Harry could feel it in his mind, not only in the words, but in the sureness of the attacks. The dark wizard was winning, and Harry allowed himself a moment of fear.

_Shall I give Severus time to mourn you?_ Voldemort was confident enough by now to laugh, and the darkness around Harry pulsed. _A day, perhaps. I think I will allow him a day to mourn you, to look upon your dead body and to know that he could not save you after all. To know that he has lost. And then._ Then _I shall kill him. Swiftly, but not without pain. Oh, no. Not without pain. Severus Snape will know pain like he has never known before._

No. He _had_ to save Snape, he thought frantically as a wave of blackness attempted to pull him under and nearly managed to do so, its thick, inky tendrils sticking to his mind. So invasive that he could taste its foulness in his mouth. He gave into a single sob before pushing back with all that he had, but he knew that he was too weak by now.

Snape was depending on him, even if he was probably cursing Harry right this instant. But Harry needed him to stay alive. He wanted to stay alive himself yes, but he wanted Snape there with him. He needed his guidance and his skills. And not only that, he wanted to help Snape in his lab some evenings and maybe sit with him while he read his books. They didn’t even have to talk. He just wanted to spend time with him, and to hear him say _Harry_ again. He wanted to be around his dark humor and even his awkward hugs. As rare as they were, they made him feel safe, even when the world around him was big and frightening.

The sludge balked, and almost without conscious thought, he took advantage of the withdrawal to advance his own attack forward. His twister was growing in strength. It ripped through a portion of Voldemort’s defenses, causing the inky blackness to writhe in pain, and he didn’t even have to think very hard to understand why.

_Love._

His love for Ron and Hermione was strong, yes, but it wasn’t why he was here, was it? No. He was here because of his love for Snape.

The realization that he could possibly describe his care and concern and newfound respect for Snape in those terms nearly broke his concentration. It was…it was an epiphany, to say the least, and one that he would likely keep to himself. But he could ponder and quantify it later. For now, he would _use_ it.

Voldemort hadn’t wasted time in doubling his fighting efforts, and Harry cried out as the wizard used his distraction to send another wave of agony into his scar and throughout his entire mind. He regrouped as quickly as he could through the spinning of his mind, knowing that Voldemort’s attacks were weakening him, and he didn’t have much time. He populated his mental landscape with as many recent memories of Snape as possible, as many emotions of his own that he could drudge up to go along with them.

_Snape, answering his questions about Occlumency. Protecting him in Voldemort’s lair, even while in disguise. Gifting him the lily charm._

_Thankfulness. Admiration. Love._

Voldemort shuddered violently, and Harry knew precisely what to do next. If he could only get to the snake, to Snape’s snake…

He surged forward.

_Snape comforting him. Snape holding him after a vision. Giving him potions to soothe his nightmares. Later, withholding potions for his own good._

_Care. Comfort. Appreciation._

He pushed against Voldemort, gaining ground. Exhilaration bloomed in his chest.

_Forgiving him, giving him another chance. Trusting him enough to pet a dangerous snake, just because he asked it of him. Simply_ talking _to him, listening to him chat about his day._

_Elation. Respect. Ease._

He felt Voldemort’s fear. It was back. The fear was more tangible now, more in the foreground of his thoughts, and he knew to expect the roar of a thousand gusts of dark, sludgy darts that attacked his mind, but they didn’t stick. They washed off of him, and he felt the blackness surrounding him spasm and scream and give way as his mind burst with power.

_Seeking answers about Harry’s eyesight. Gifting him with glasses, just because Harry needed them, something no one had thought to do before._

_Gratitude. Awe._

_Love._

He sensed the breakdown of Voldemort’s defenses a split second before it occurred, and he acted on instinct, knowing that he didn’t have much time. He was powerful enough to win this battle temporarily, but Voldemort would not give up the war so easily. Abandoning all thought of fighting off Voldemort’s attacks, knowing that this task would take everything that he had, he charged straight for the snake-like tendril of dark magic binding Snape to his dark master.

He grasped it, clung to it, tore at it with every ounce of energy and love and fight within him, even as it twisted and writhed and struck at him. It attempted to wrap itself around him, to crush him, and then the attacks from behind him began anew. The darkness writhed, trembled, and lashed out at him, even while his mind was crushed through the sieve of dark magic and his senses began to shut down. He pulsed with power, directing all of it at the snake, and it gave one last writhe and went limp. It tore in two, from the base through to the tip, and fell in a dead, shriveled-up heap.

He’d done it. Snape was free. He smiled.

He would have celebrated, but the sledgehammer crushed into his mind, and the world went dark in an explosion of rage and pain.

* * *

The next thing he knew, he was a ghost. Maybe. He felt light, not like his body should feel after his mind had been crushed to death—which it had—so he must be a ghost. But he couldn’t see, so maybe he wasn’t a ghost after all? He’d never met a blind ghost. And then he thought that maybe his eyes were closed, and he remembered that ghosts had eyes, and they could probably close them too.

So maybe he was a ghost after all. Only, he’d never wanted to be one. And he’d never wanted to die so young.

The thought distressed him, and he whimpered.

He heard movement next to him, felt a brush of skin against his arm, and a voice said softly, “Harry?”

He knew that voice, had figured out something about the person behind the voice, some sort of epiphany, but he couldn’t remember what it was. But he didn’t think he was a ghost after all, and he felt nice because the hand was brushing his hair away from his face in a soft, soothing motion, and he floated back into the darkness of dreamless, potionless sleep.

* * *

He became vaguely aware of the scents in the air. Fresh salt air, muted by the musty smell of old furniture and cleaning potions. Broth. Clean laundry. Herbs. Dirt. Lilac. Cinnamon.

His head hurt, and he felt a weight on his arm, like something warm and heavy and breathing was resting on top of it, but he didn’t mind. He felt safe. He drifted back to sleep before he could even wonder if he was awake.

* * *

Something was wrong. Someone was supposed to be there. With him, wherever he was. But whoever it was, he wasn’t there.

He could tell, by something lacking in the air—the way whoever it was moved and smelled and sounded—that he wasn’t there, but somebody else was. They touched his head. He whimpered in protest, hoping they would know what he needed, _who_ he needed, but they moved away, and he whimpered again, and before he could protest or cry, he fell back into the darkness…

* * *

_“—this long?”_

_“Give it time…heart is steady.”_

_“…his_ mind _, Albus. Even if his body…his mind. We do not know…”_

The voices swirled around him, saying words that sounded like words he knew, but at the same time made no sense. But nothing made sense, really. His mind was floating, as if outside himself, but his head hurt, and it anchored him to reality, drew him a little further from the floaty feeling, and his throat was dry. It became his most pressing concern. Nothing existed outside of his dry throat, and he moaned. Hands touched his forehead, but he couldn’t move except to crack his lips open and moan again. The hands didn’t get the message, for they ran a cool cloth over his face. But it felt so good that he decided his parched throat could wait after all.

His mind began to float again, until a few drops of water on his tongue soothed him back into the bliss of nothingness.

* * *

“Harry.” The voice drew him to it, like he had been waiting for his name to be spoken, and now that it had been, he had little choice but to obey its call. “Harry,” it repeated, “open your eyes,” and it echoed in his mind, reminding him of Ron’s loud voice in the library, and he thought to shush his friend, but that would take an awful lot of energy.

Instead, he listened to the sounds in the room as he slowly drifted closer to consciousness. A clock ticked, faintly, like it was from a wristwatch or perhaps a clock in a different room. Fabric rustled—his own sheets, he realized as he felt someone adjust them around his shoulders—and a sigh sounded from next to him. A sigh of frustration, or of worry, perhaps? He thought to reach out to comfort whoever it was, but again…it would take _way_ too much energy.

But he felt the need to obey the voice, so he concentrated really, really hard on cracking open his eyes. A sliver of light broke through his vision, and he slammed his eyelids shut with a groan.

“Harry?” Another rustle of fabric. The creak of a chair. He felt a hand on his face, and he turned into it a fraction of an inch. “That’s it. Time to wake up now,” the voice said, and it tapped his cheek gently.

He tried again, and the light was softer when his eyes opened this time. Snape’s face hovered above him, his black eyes looking down on him intently, as if looking for something, as if searching out Harry’s very soul.

“Say something,” Snape said urgently. “Can you say something?”

Harry blinked slowly, long enough to see worry creep onto Snape’s face, though he wasn’t sure what he was worrying about. He dropped his eyes, and it came rushing back to him when he saw Snape’s arms. He gasped. The man’s arms…they matched. Both were unblemished. The Dark Mark was completely erased from his left forearm. He felt tears gather behind his eyes. He desperately blinked them away, but not before one escaped.

The hand gave his cheek another gentle pat and his eyes were drawn back to Snape’s. “I very much need for you to say something right now,” the professor said, a frantic edge to his tone, “if only to reassure me that you still have the mental capacity for speech.”

He licked his lips and croaked, “It worked?”

Snape closed his eyes and bowed his head for a long moment, breathing deeply and a little shakily. He tucked the sheets closer around Harry. It wasn’t really necessary, as he hadn’t moved in the last couple minutes, but he didn’t say anything about it since it seemed to make his professor feel better. Not that Harry could say anything more just then. It had taken so much energy to blink away tears and to say two words, that he could already feel himself closing his eyes and drifting off…

“Yes,” he heard Snape say as his fringe was brushed from his face and the hand settled on top of his head. “You did it.” Snape’s voice was rough, too many emotions mingled together for Harry to sift through them just now. Only, there was something in Snape’s voice, a note he’d never heard before, and he tried to parcel it out before his heavy eyelids got the best of him.

“You’re okay?” he murmured sleepily.

“Yes,” said Snape again. “I’m okay. We will be fine, the both of us.” There it was again, something foreign alongside the relief. Not _entirely_ foreign, he amended. Something Harry had heard before, but never in Snape’s voice.

He tried to force his eyes open, tried to keep the conversation going so he could figure it out, but he couldn’t. Sleep was a force of nature, and it was forcing him under again. And then he thought he might already be asleep, because he felt lips brush lightly against his forehead, right over his scar, and that wasn’t right, because Snape was the only one here. And _Snape_ wouldn’t ever do that…would he?

“Rest. We have much to discuss. But first, rest.”

He heard it again, that strange lilt to his voice, and just before he was claimed by the soothing darkness of sleep, he placed it.

It was joy.


	60. A Lot Like Love

He awoke with a jolt. One moment he was unaware of the world around him, and in the next he bolted upright in bed, not altogether sure why. He half expected to be restrained, a vague impression flitting through his mind that he hadn’t been alone in quite a while. But no hands appeared, and he seemed to be alone now.

It was night, and things were a bit fuzzy without his glasses, but he could see well enough by the illumination of a soft light nearby to know where he was. He was still at Kneader’s. In the infirmary room. In pajamas that he had not been wearing before. He experienced no moment of confusion, no hazy waking-up period. He remembered everything about being in Voldemort’s mind, and he shuddered at the sudden overwhelming urge to take a bath to rid himself of black sludge and dark magic.

It had been _awful_.

And it had been worth it. He remembered waking up, of Snape’s rolled-up sleeves, his arms bare like Harry had only seen them a small handful of times. He remembered the lack of Dark Mark, the skin unblemished as if the Mark had never existed. Most of all, he remembered Snape’s face, how he had looked in an instant of relief, how his eyes had been clear of the pain that so often haunted them.

He remembered the joy. Or what he thought was joy. And he remembered…

His face heated, though there was no one around to see. He remembered the feeling of being tucked in, like he imagined his parents might have done, and of a gentle kiss, the kind he’d seen Petunia give Dudley so many times but that she’d never once given to Harry. He remembered…he remembered feeling loved.

Surely it had been in his imagination. He knew that Snape liked him now, but…he was _Snape_. He wasn’t the type to get sentimental or to show affection.

He also wasn’t the type to give Harry mementos of his mother, or to hold him when he had a nightmare, or to return a hug, or to let him sleep on the sofa in his private quarters. And yet…he had done all of those things, so… Why shouldn’t he be capable of one fleeting, barely-there, parental moment that made Harry feel safe, protected, and like everything was going to be okay?

_You should have been my son._

Snape’s once-spoken words ran unbidden through his mind, and he swallowed against a rush of emotion. His overactive mind was taking the words out of context, he knew, and he shook his head in an attempt to shake them loose. He needed to stop himself before he began to expect more from Snape than the man was prepared to give. His own realization within Voldemort’s mind was causing him to wander down a dangerous path of wanting and craving things that he had no right to expect.

He really wasn’t certain of the exact moments his hatred for Snape had turned to tolerance, and then to understanding, respect, appreciation, and ultimately to love. It had happened quite quickly, only over the past couple months, but…at the same time, it had happened so gradually that he could not think to the exact moment that it all changed. There were so many moments, too many to count up, that had all led him to this moment, to this realization.

Because that’s what it was now. Love. He felt for Snape the same way he’d felt for Sirius. In a way. He felt a different mix of emotions when he thought of the two men, certainly. They held different parts of him, different bits of his life and his history, and they filled different spaces in his heart. But the love? That part was the same.

It struck him that the most staggering part of his epiphany about how he felt about Snape was how _not_ staggering it was. Okay, yeah, he had been staggered by their evolving relationship every single time he’d thought over it over the past weeks and months…but right now..?

Right now it felt normal, natural even, that he should feel love for Snape.

It was on the tail end of that thought that he heard the rasp of a soft snore and swiveled his head to see a sleeping body on the bed next to his. He fumbled for his glasses on the small bedside table between them. Snape’s closed eyes and hooked nose were lit up by the soft light of a lantern on the table. He was lying on top of the covers, an open book inches from his hand, as if he’d intended to read and had instead fallen asleep.

Harry watched the man’s chest rise and fall for a couple minutes, then scanned his eyes about the room, not sure what he was searching for. He had a bit of a headache, but it wasn’t bad and he wasn’t tired enough to fall back asleep. He didn’t want to wake his professor—Merlin knew the man could use the rest, after all Voldemort had put him through recently—but he also wasn’t in the mood to converse with Kneader or Mimsy, should he be caught wandering the house. As silently as he could, he swung his legs out of bed and onto the floor. He carefully placed his weight on one leg and then the other as he stood, not certain how steady he would be after whatever Voldemort had done to his mind to end their connection, and he was happy to note that despite a bit of trembling in his hands and knees, he felt strong and sturdy.

A glass of water sat on the bedside table and he gratefully sipped at it while glancing sideways at a pile of papers closer to Snape. He’d just about made up his mind not to be nosy when he saw his own name on top of what looked to be some sort of schedule, and he craned his neck to take a peek. He almost laughed at the predictability of Snape’s dealing with Harry’s period of recovery by making him yet another study schedule, except that he was worried it meant he had slept away another week of school. He didn’t feel like he had been asleep all that long, but anything was possible when Voldemort was involved. He took a deep breath and let it out on a soft sigh. The idea of having to catch up on schoolwork again was downright depressing, but he supposed if he’d done it before, he could do it again.

He had broken the Dark Mark’s connection, and Snape would live. Surely that was worth a bit of extra studying. He’d still hate having to do it though.

He was about to move on from the schedule before his eye caught on a rather large block of time set aside where one shouldn’t be. Giving up on not touching Snape’s things—it was basically Harry’s thing anyway, with his name on it and all—he snatched up the paper and narrowed his eyes at what he hoped was Snape’s idea of a joke. A large chunk of his Saturdays was taken up by something labeled “P.” Whatever that was. Was Snape intending to have him study his weekends away until he was caught up? Or even longer, because he wanted Harry to bring up his grades to an impossible Hermione-like level? He nearly groaned aloud, his thoughts of lazy lie-ins and flying practice with Ron going up in smoke. He’d do it, he knew. If Snape _really_ wanted him to spend his Saturdays in the library or in extra study sessions, he’d do it. It probably wouldn’t even feel like the worst of all punishments, because he liked knowing the man was proud of him. But he wouldn’t do it without grumbling and trying to talk him out of it first. Trying really, _reall_ y hard to talk him out of it first.

Setting the schedule back where he found it, and finding that his legs were already growing tired, he sat back on the bed with his legs folded under him and studied the sleeping professor. It struck him that he could probably sit here and study Snape’s relaxed face and think on the year he’d had and not run out of things to think about all day. He grinned and stifled a laugh as his victory within Voldemort’s mind began to settle, to feel real, and he felt almost giddy in relief. Snape would live. Harry would live. They would go back to school, where Harry’s greatest worries were homework and Quidditch matches.

Well, _and_ nightmares and unpredictable powers and the looming threat of his next encounter with Voldemort. So…not entirely worry-free, he had to admit. But better than before, because Snape wasn’t going anywhere. He would be there beside him, helping him to deal with his nightmares and teaching him to channel his power and training him in the mental arts. With such a capable teacher beside him, none of those things was impossible to conquer.

He didn’t realize he was sporting a soft smile on his face until he registered a pair of black eyes blinking up at him sleepily. An instant later, the eyes widened and Snape was pushing himself up from the bed. He stared at Harry for a long moment, looking him over from head to toe as if confirming that he was, in fact, sitting on top of his bed fully awake, staring back at him.

“Um. Good morning,” said Harry politely. He looked out the window at the darkness outside. “Good evening?” he corrected, then turned back and got right to what he wanted to know. “ _Please_ don’t tell me I slept another whole week away. It’ll be _so_ much harder to catch up in the middle of term than it was at the beginning!”

Snape shook his head as if to wake himself faster. “No,” he rasped. He cleared his throat. “We can discuss that later. How are you feeling? Headache? Dizziness? Disorientation?” He whisked out a wand before Harry could answer and ran it over him in a way that reminded Harry of Madame Pomfrey and her diagnostic spells.

The professor was already walking to the potions cabinet when Harry caught up enough to answer, “Um, headache. Not too bad though… And no dizziness or anything like that. A little shaky, maybe? And tired. Not sleepy tired, more like my muscles are tired. I feel…good though. Like, better than I would have expected,” he said with a question in his voice.

Snape didn’t respond right away, his hands busy rifling through vials. He found what he was looking for and returned to the bed with a headache draft, which Harry downed eagerly, and a thick earth-toned concoction that Harry studied curiously.

“A nutritive potion,” explained Snape. “Your body went through an ordeal alongside your mind. As well as you are feeling at the moment, it will be best to wait until at least the noon meal to consume solids.”

Harry drank the potion, which didn’t taste horrible, for its drab color. He licked his lips. It tasted a bit like grass, if grass were as sweet as pineapple.

The professor sat in a chair next to the bed and watched him. What for, Harry wasn’t sure, but before he could give in to the urge to fidget, Snape volunteered, “Your body recovered from its exhaustion quickly, though you will find yourself easily drained after being abed so long. Mr. Kneader theorizes that you were aided in your quick healing by the power that you managed to gather into your magical core. With your body injured, it focused itself internally, repairing your body quite a bit more quickly than might otherwise be expected.”

He nodded, relieved, but his greatest concern was elsewhere. He moaned, “Seriously. How long was I asleep? Just tell me so I can mourn the loss of all my free time for the rest of term.”

Snape’s lips quirked up and he leaned back, something of contentment in his expression. “No need for dramatics. You only missed two days of school. It is coming up on Wednesday. We shall see how you feel come morning light. Judging by your mental alertness, you will almost certainly be well enough to attend classes. If not, I will be happy to personally deliver your assignments to your sick bed.”

Harry grimaced at that thought, then scooted back on the bed and leaned against the headboard. _Two days_ , he thought with relief. He could handle two days. That wasn’t so bad. “You didn’t have to miss class again too, did you?”

“No,” assured Snape. “I returned each evening, but Mr. Kneader has been with you during the day.”

He nodded. “I hope I didn’t worry you too much.”

Snape gave him a look that Harry could only call exasperated and said dryly, “You invaded the Dark Lord’s mind, went into magical shock, very well could have died or become a vegetable in the process, and you _hope you didn’t worry me too much_.”

“Um. Yeah?”

“If you ever do anything that stupidly self-sacrificing again and survive, I will kill you,” Snape growled. “Personally.”

Harry thought a slight change of topic might be in order. “So…without the Dark Mark, can you say and hear You-Know-Who’s name now?”

Snape gave him a last warning look, then touched his left forearm with the opposite thumb, rubbing circles absently across the bare skin. A very un-Snape-like look crossed his face, and he looked almost lost. “I don’t… I hadn’t had time to consider. But. I can’t think why not. So…yes, I suppose so.”

“Can I… Do you want… I mean, can I try?”

Snape hesitated, then nodded, focusing his eyes on his arm.

“Voldemort,” said Harry, almost in a whisper.

Snape flinched.

“Still?” asked Harry, dismayed. “How is that even possible?”

“No,” said Snape in a pinched voice. “No, it didn’t hurt. Not at all.” He sucked in a sharp breath and looked at Harry with an undefinable emotion in his eyes. “It is only… Nearly twenty years… I—I must think how to explain.” He lowered his eyes back to his arm. “I do not miss it—how could I?—but it has been a part of me for my entire adult life. I should not miss it, and yet… No,” he said firmly. “I do not miss it. It is only, I do not know what it is to be without it yet. I expect it to burn at any second. I _feel_ it burn in my mind. And the mind…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have been trained to fear the Dark Lord’s name, and the mind does not so easily forget.”

“I could start with something close, to get you used to it,” Harry offered. “Moldywart? Voldyshorts?

Snape looked up and Harry was gratified to see amusement in his eyes. “How long have you been waiting to use those monikers?”

“A while,” he admitted.

Snape’s eyes were soft, when he said, “I appreciate the suggestion. However, I…I am quite tired of living in fear, I think. I am determined to reclaim my mind, and I cannot do so without acclimating myself to hearing his—to _saying_ V—Voldemort,” he shuddered.

Harry wanted to pat his professor’s arm and tell him well done, but it might seem patronizing, so he gave him a wide grin instead. Snape smiled back, and Harry was struck by how much younger and less dour he appeared when he smiled _and_ was pain-free.

They fell into a comfortable silence, and after a few minutes, Harry decided to take advantage of Snape’s good mood. “You know, you still owe me a total rundown of your personal life and who all you’re friends with on the Hogwarts faculty.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “I believe I said I would provide for you _one_ detail of my personal life, without a specific promise as to the topic, and with the understanding that it would be altogether inconsequential and unexciting.”

“You even talking to me _about_ talking to me about your personal life is already exciting,” countered Harry.

Snape huffed in amusement. “Well then. Let us draw out the excitement as long as possible. I have a question of my own first.”

“What? Why do you get to go first?”

“Because I am the grown-up.”

“That is a totally unfair and arbitrary rule.”

“Alas,” Snape held up his hands in mock defeat, “as the grown-up, I get to make the rules. Arbitrary or no.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, though he wasn’t truly put out. “Oka-ay,” he sounded out. “How about the question game? Take turns, a question for a question? For old time’s sake.”

“We grew out of that game long ago.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. The grown-up making the rules.” Snape gave him a look, the kind that accused Harry of being obtuse on purpose. “I would hope that you would have realized by now that I will always give you only as much information as I am willing to give you, regardless what game we play. The ‘question game,’ as you call it, was my ploy to get _you_ to talk.”

“I know,” Harry shrugged. “But I still got something out of it. And it worked, didn’t it? I talked. So why not do it again? It’ll probably put me in more of a sharing mood,” he said with exaggerated innocence.

“Because you no longer require it. You trust me enough by now to generally answer my questions without the necessity of persuasion or subterfuge.”

“But it would be fun,” Harry needled.

“For Merlin’s— Fine.” Snape threw up his hands with a harrumph, though Harry could tell that he wasn’t truly put out either. “I still will go first.” His eyes dared Harry to challenge that, but Harry was quite content to have won one battle, and he happily plumped up a pillow to put behind his back.

Instead of starting right in with a question about his health or studies like Harry had expected, Snape shifted in a way that Harry knew meant he was uncomfortable or nervous about something. And wasn’t _that_ intriguing? He adjusted himself so that he was sitting up straight and watched his professor expectantly.

“I—” Snape cleared his throat. “My question is rather more of a proposition. I thought to offer before, especially in light of recent revelations that may have hindered your past academic performance.” He ran his eyes over Harry’s new glasses. “But with Occlumency so new and quite urgent, and the distraction of my Dark Mark…” He shook his head. “In any event, we are well into October. I am running out of time to extend such an offer. Hence…” He cleared his throat again and paused long enough that Harry had to work hard to keep the confusion off his face. He finally said, “You still desire to complete your Potions NEWT, yes?”

Harry widened his eyes and a little too quickly squeaked, “What? Yes! Of course. Yes.”

“I meant what I said before. I will only allow the best students into my NEWT class. However…if you are so inclined to put in the hard work required, I would be willing to tutor you. With the understanding that _if_ I deem your progress satisfactory by the end of this term, _then_ you may join the Sixth year class in the spring.”

“Yes.” Harry bit his lip to keep from saying _yes_ over and over. That was all that would probably come out, as he was too thrilled to be able to put together a coherent sentence.

A smile ghosted on Snape’s lips. “Make no mistake. It will be hard work. I will accept nothing less than your best effort, and we have much to cover, not only to catch up to your classmates, but also to hone skills that you should have mastered prior to this year. My time is valuable. You will not waste it. I expect for you to put in your highest amount of effort, or I will not waste my time teaching you.”

“Yes.” His body was thrumming with excitement. “Please. Yes. I’ll work hard, I promise. You won’t regret it.”

Snape studied Harry with a smile ghosting his lips. “No, I do not think that I will,” he said softly, then reached for the study schedule on the table. He handed it to Harry. “However, you would be wise to give my offer some actual consideration before accepting. As I have class during most of your free periods, and it is unwise to fill up every evening with extra lessons, you will be required to give up a considerable amount of time to additional studies in between your classes and the honing of your brewing skills on the weekends. With all that is on your plate—”

“Yes.” Before Snape could go on, he insisted, “I thought about it. I want to. I’ll work hard, I promise, and I won’t waste your time.” Every thought he had had to talk Snape out of Saturday work vanished. He could still be an _Auror!_ But. “Oh,” he paused. “Um. There’s flexibility in there for Quidditch practices, right? We practice a lot on Saturday mornings, and sometimes we move it to the afternoon.”

Snape quirked his lips. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of Quidditch practice.”

Harry laughed and tried not to bounce in excitement. “Then it’s a deal and I accept.” He extended his hand.

“You are aware that not all offers must be cemented with a handshake,” Snape pointed out, even as he accepted Harry’s hand and gave it one firm shake before letting go.

Harry shrugged, still grinning. “It feels more official.”

“Hmm.” Snape leaned back with a satisfied look on his face and waved for Harry to take his turn. But truly, what more could Harry ask for after that? He wouldn’t even complain if Snape wanted to be closed-lipped for the rest of the _year_ if he was really willing to spend all that extra time teaching Harry.

Okay, that was a lie. Spending all that time with Snape would probably only sharpen his curiosity. So maybe he’d better strike while the iron was hot.

“Who are you friends with on the Hogwarts staff?” he asked eagerly. At Snape’s dry look at the word _friends_ , he amended, “Which Hogwarts professors do you talk to when you don’t absolutely have to?”

Snape gave him an approving glance at the amended wording and answered, “Sprout.”

“Sprout?” Harry repeated, surprised. That…had not been what he was expecting.

“I enjoy conversing with Pomona Sprout. She is quite knowledgeable about herbs, and by extension the fundamentals of potions-making. She generally has the positivity to put up with my foul moods, yet the ability to temper it enough to not thoroughly irritate me.”

All he could think to respond for a few seconds was, “oh.” He smiled, a warm feeling spreading inside him at the personal revelation, and then he laughed in delight at the mental image that conjured up. “You sit around the staffroom talking about herbs with Professor Sprout?” He couldn’t have pictured it before, but now that he did, it didn’t seem too far-fetched.

Snape sniffed. “Well. I can see how it pales in comparison with _your_ riveting social engagements. Debating the finer points of schoolyard crushes and chocolate frogs, no doubt.”

“Those are very serious topics,” said Harry, only half joking. “I don’t know what I expected. Professor Flitwick, maybe.”

Snape shrugged. “I have never avoided conversing with Professor Flitwick. We have little in common, but I appreciate his temperament and respect his teaching style and expertise.”

“Huh. And Professor McGonagall?” he asked while Snape was in a sharing mood.

“We have a grudging professional respect,” shared Snape. “We have known each other long enough to work well together, but neither of us has quite the patience for lengthy lunchtime chats with a fellow stubborn soul.”

Harry tried not to laugh at the idea of McGonagall and Snape trying to be friends. He couldn’t quite picture it. They were too similar and dissimilar at the same time. “And Dumbledore,” he said, not asking. “You talk to him.”

Snape inclined a head in agreement but didn’t elaborate. “Any more pressing questions? Would you like to inquire as to my relationship with Professor Trelawney, perhaps?”

Harry grinned. “Um, no. No, I don’t think I need to ask about that one.” The mere thought of Snape trying to put up with a conversation with the Divination teacher made him want to laugh. “Your turn. But, professor?” He smiled. “Thanks. Really.”

Snape inclined his head again and asked, “How much do you remember of the cabin?”

Harry didn’t need to ask; he knew what cabin Snape meant. “Bits and pieces? I remember images, more than anything. The way the blanket felt. Waking up, and you being there. I keep remembering something about snow?” he half-asked with a confused frown. “But it couldn’t have been snowing that time of year, so I have no idea what that’s about.”

Snape laughed—actually _laughed_ at that—and Harry decided maybe he was better off not knowing. “The only clear things I remember were what you said about Sirius, and also when I—” He looked away. “I remember thinking you were dead, and it’s kind of hazy, but I remember that you were there and you…um, said you’d stay with me. And you did.”

Snape leaned forward, not laughing now, and rested his elbows on his knees. “That is all?”

“Um.” He peaked at Snape’s face and decided to be honest. “No. I…I remember one more thing. You, um, asking me about Dementors. About—about what I hear.”

“Oh.” Snape looked away. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t remember that,” he admitted.

“It’s okay, you know,” said Harry tentatively. “You didn’t have to wait until I was out of it to ask. I’d have told you.”

Snape waved a hand feebly in the air. “Yes, I know. I was rather more hoping to avoid my own embarrassment of asking something so personal. And to…” He swallowed.

“To..?” Harry prodded after a minute.

He made an aborted effort at speech and then said, “I was not ready to talk at length about her, to inspire you to think that she was fair game. I am still not quite…” He hesitated. “She— It is only that I—”

“It’s okay,” interrupted Harry, and it was. Just because he wanted to ask for the moon didn’t mean he wouldn’t be content with a few glimpses of it from afar. He wanted to know all about Lily Evans Potter, yes, but he’d already found out more from little snippets Snape had given him than he’d ever dreamed he’d get. “You don’t have to. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I really, really want to know more about my mum, and I’d love to hear anything you want to tell me, but, um…I won’t ask if you don’t want me to. I mean, I’ll try not to ask. You can just tell me whatever you want to whenever you want to, and if you don’t want to say much, that’s okay too.”

Snape studied him like he didn’t believe him, but his earnest expression must have been convincing. The professor sat back in his chair with a sigh. “You are entirely too empathetic for a sixteen-year old. It is unnatural.”

“Oh. Uh. Sorry? I guess?”

“You should at least negotiate for what you want.” Snape pointed a finger at him. “I still blame your Gryffindor tendencies, but the truth is that you also have far too much Hufflepuff in you to ever put your Slytherin potential to maximum use.”

“Hufflepuff?” Harry repeated, having never thought of himself in relation to that house before. “Huh. Well, being like a Slytherin is mainly about ambition, right? Who says I can’t be ambitious about making friends and not stepping all over them? The two can work together.”

“Do not forget cunning. Among other attributes. Cunning and getting along with people are not mutually exclusive, you know. With finesse, it is quite possible to both get what you want out of the situation _and_ ensure the other person feels the same.”

“But I don’t want to play games.”

“I know,” nodded Snape with a mournful look that turned to determination. “We will work on that.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to throw up his hands. “You’re still angling to turn me into a Slytherin?”

Snape’s eyes took on an amused gleam. “You have just agreed to spend a sizable portion of your year in one-on-one tutelage with the Head of Slytherin House. The more pertinent question is whether you still think that the development of your Slytherin traits can be avoided.”

“Hmm.” Harry pursed his lips at that, mainly to avoid a smile, but he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he circled back around to the point and insisted, “I mean it, you know. I’m not playing games. You don’t have to—”

Snape stopped him by covering one of Harry’s hands with his own. “I know. I am grateful.” His eyes were unguarded for once, letting his gratitude show. Harry smiled and nodded, and Snape squeezed his hand before he let go. “I believe it is your turn.”

Harry hesitated. He’d honestly had something stored up that he’d wanted to ask for a while now, but after just promising not to pester Snape about his mum, it didn’t feel like the right time. It might even be rude. It was definitely brushing up against those mental scars Snape carried around with him from the past. He bit his lip and decided to chance it. Maybe. “You don’t have to answer. I mean, I just told you I wouldn’t pester you about my mum, and I meant it, it’s only, something you said once, about…about my dad. Only, more about me, and I wanted to know, but you didn’t say, and you don’t have to, but I wondered if you might—”

“Ask,” said Snape gently. “Remember. I will give you only what information I wish to give you.”

Harry licked his dry lips and watched Snape for his reaction. “You, um…you told me once, while we were at Grimmauld Place, that I was like my dad. Only…only, not in the ways you always thought.”

Snape looked away, but not before Harry saw a glimmer of pain in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Harry said in a rush. “I mean, I wanted to know what you meant by that, but you don’t have to, if it brings up memories you’d rather... I mean, I can just—”

Snape held up a hand, and Harry stopped talking. He had to try really hard not to break the silence that followed, as Snape seemed to be deciding what to say. The professor crossed his arms and rubbed a hand across his face.

“I still hate him,” he admitted after a while, without looking at Harry. His jaw clenched. “I know that I should try not to, for your sake. But a lifetime of single-minded hatred is not so easily overcome.”

Harry looked at his hands, finding a loose thread on his pajamas quite interesting. For the first time since he woke up, he was distinctly uncomfortable. He’d _known_ he shouldn’t have brought up his dad. They had mostly ignored the topic of James Potter lately. Harry had thought it was enough that Snape didn’t hate _Harry_ now, but he was beginning to see that until Snape could forgive Harry’s dad, there would always be a James-sized chasm between them. No matter how much they tried to ignore it, or how often it seemed not to matter, it would always be there in the background. He wrapped the thread around his fingers and tried to figure out how to backtrack the question so they could ignore that chasm for as long as possible.

“He _was_ arrogant,” Snape said suddenly, in a clipped tone, not looking at Harry. “Spoiled. Both things that you are not. You possess a reserve that he didn’t. And a desire to protect, and to see the best in people. He did not— Your personality is quite more like—” he swallowed, hard, and went quickly on. “But not entirely hers. I hated his rashness, but I cannot deny that he was brave in the face of danger. Like you. Firm in his convictions, as far removed as they were from my own. Skilled in certain areas, particularly Defense and dueling, to my detriment. He was sharp-witted, which was bloody irritating. Loyal to his friends, as undeserving as they were…”

Harry bit his lip, too overwhelmed by the information about his dad to say anything. He silently willed Snape to continue, and the man took the hint.

“You share those traits. Only, I don’t hate you for it. So there is that.” Snape half shrugged and lowered his head so that Harry could not see his face. “The one thing I cannot hate him for is his last act. He protected Lily. Sent her away with you. Sacrificed himself. I hate that it was he who had the right to protect her, but I cannot hate that he did. Even if it did not save her in the end.” He looked up at Harry with resigned eyes. “You are like both your parents in that respect. Self-sacrificing. I wish to hell you were not.”

Harry looked back down to the loose thread, winding and unwinding it around a finger. That was more than anybody aside from Sirius had told him about his dad in one go, and that it was Snape, who hated his dad and who had been willing to tell him about him anyway, meant an awful lot. He was alarmed to find that he was blinking back tears.

Snape’s hand covered his again, stopping his nervous fidgeting, and Harry looked up through his fringe. The professor took a deep breath and let it out. “I will…try. I cannot…cannot promise anything. It may take a miracle. I am not so skilled at—” he waved his other hand in the air as if to make up for words he could not say. After another aborted attempt, he changed tacks. “You chose a better path than I. I once denied it, then resented it. I believe I am finally grateful to you for it.”

“Grateful?” Harry asked, confused at what this had to do with his dad but deeply yearning to know.

Snape nodded, his gaze firmly focused on Harry. “I have never truly accepted the concept of choice. One is so often what one was born to be. Or so I thought. Dumbledore insisted otherwise, even Kneader on occasion, but I could not see it. Until you.”

Harry was fascinated by the man’s words. He was wary of saying much, for fear of derailing Snape’s openness, but he cautiously asked, “Why…until me?”

“You have not merely upended my world, but also my worldview.” He took a shallow breath and let it out. “When I found out…after we left your relatives’ home… I had previously thought you a brat without excuse, only to discover that you _have_ an excuse and yet are not so. For a time, I hated you for the second almost as much as I hated you for the first, for it meant that I myself was without excuse.”

He had the urge to apologize and bit his tongue. This was definitely one of those situations that didn’t warrant it.

“I still do not understand how forgiveness comes so easily to you,” Snape shook his head. “But I cannot deny the power of being on the receiving end.”

“You forgave me,” Harry pointed out. “I think you’re better at it than you give yourself credit for.”

Snape lifted an eyebrow. “Ours are hardly equal situations.”

And no, reflected Harry, they weren’t equal. Stealing a potions jar wasn’t quite the same thing as serving an evil Muggle-hating wizard and being partially responsible for orphaning a childhood friend’s son. And yet. “It’s a big deal to me,” he said. “Equal or no.”

Snape stared at him for a minute, then shook his head with a wry but sad smile on his lips. “You see? The great Harry Potter, bane of my existence, is undeniably a good person. I should find you thoroughly irritating. To tell you the truth, I find it quite irritating that I do not.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you,” he said simply. “For trying. To forgive him. Even if it might take a miracle.” He felt a weight lift off his chest even knowing that Snape would try, because he had more confidence in Snape’s ability to forgive than Snape himself did. It took practice, that’s all, and the man had already had some practice to start out with, thanks to Harry’s own mistakes. Surely he would only find it easier going forward.

Snape sighed and removed his hand from Harry’s. “Are you tired? You should rest, perhaps.”

He recognized Snape’s attempt to end the conversation. Talking so openly like this couldn’t be easy for him; he’d gotten better at it, but he still wasn’t used to it. Harry really should have agreed for the professor’s sake, but he really wasn’t tired, and he could tell that Snape would be willing to keep going if he wanted to. Plus, he had another question he really needed to know the answer to, and he wasn’t sure when else would be a better time to ask. So he went out of turn and before he could talk himself out of asking, he blurted out, “Did you kill Crabbe?” and tried to not cringe.

Snape didn’t react at the question, didn’t even look surprised. “No,” he said evenly, meeting Harry’s eyes.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and repeated a relieved, “no?”

“Do not paint me a saint quite yet,” Snape warned. “I have killed in the past. And I knew when I used Crabbe for my plan that I was endangering his life. I am not entirely innocent.”

“But you didn’t kill him. You didn’t mean for him to die.”

“No. I did not.”

He nodded. Good. That was…good.

Snape waved a hand. “Anything else you wish to know? Consider it carte blanche on your turn. Since you apparently _love_ the concept of carte blanche,” he said dryly, eyes narrowed, and Harry tried not to laugh. He wondered how long he would be paying for his stunt with Dumbledore the other day.

“You can ask,” Harry offered. “I already skipped your turn. It’s okay.”

Snape shot him a half-exasperated stare. “You really do need to learn how to play the game to your own benefit.”

“The question game?”

“The _life_ game. When someone offers you an advantage, _take it_.”

“I just want to be fair.”

Snape sat back and gave him an exasperated glare. “We have much work ahead of us.”

“Good thing we have the time,” said Harry with a barely contained smile.

Snape quirked his lips. “Yes,” he said softly, ghosting his fingers over his unmarked arm. “We have time.” He breathed in and out a few times before saying, “I am quite out of questions for tonight. We have much to discuss of your foray into the Dark—” He paused and shuddered as he forced himself to say, “Vol—Voldemort’s mind. But as you are not in any imminent danger, that will wait until our next Occlumency lesson. If you have anything else you wish to discuss, now is your opportunity. If not, you should at least try to rest your body and your mind before breakfast.”

Harry could think of dozens of things he’d like to ask his professor, but one thing stood out among the rest. “Maybe, um…one thing? It’s not like it’ll matter for a while, I just want to know…” he trailed off, and at Snape’s encouraging nod, he carefully asked, “Do you think Dumbledore will send me back to the Dursleys?”

“No,” said Snape almost before he had finished the question. A dark look crossed his eyes. “Absolutely not. You need not concern yourself with that possibility. It will not happen.”

“But do you know for sure? Has Dumbledore said?”

“He has already informed your relatives that you are no longer in their custody.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait. He did? He spoke to the Dursleys?”

Snape gave a noncommittal sound that Harry knew meant yes, but that he wasn’t going to go into details. “You may ask the headmaster about the particulars if you wish. Suffice it to say, they have been thoroughly admonished for their wrongdoing and removed from their position as your legal guardians. They should be facing more dire consequences,” he said with an angry tick in his jaw, “but going through Muggle legal channels would only bring undue attention to you in our world. As it is simple to remove you from their home without that step, it was thought best to avoid that for your sake.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, grimacing at the idea of the articles the Daily Prophet would write about him. “Thanks. But oh. Wow. That’s…” He could cry, that’s what. All he’d ever wanted was to be free of the Dursleys. “But…where will I go?” His godfather was dead, he had no living family, and he didn’t want to put his friends’ families in more danger. “I can’t stay at Hogwarts…” He really, really wanted to stay at Hogwarts. He wished it weren’t empty during the summers.

“There is plenty of time to make arrangements,” reassured Snape. “I’m certain the headmaster already has a few ideas in mind to ensure both your safety and your comfort.”

“He hasn’t told you?”

“No. But I know him. He has already given considerable thought to a solution, I assure you.”

“Okay,” he said and wished his voice didn’t sound so small. He wasn’t little anymore, but there was nothing like finding oneself suddenly adrift without parents _or_ legal guardians to make one feel like a little kid in a great, big, overwhelming world. Except…he had friends. And teachers. One, in particular. He wasn’t all alone.

“Time to rest, I think,” said Snape, and this time Harry didn’t try to put him off. He obediently slid down the bed and let Snape pull the covers over his body. He wouldn’t sleep, he knew. His brain was still running over all the things they’d talked about and more. But they were both ready for talking to give way to a companionable silence, and so he got comfortable and didn’t complain when Snape plucked his glasses from his face, folded them, and placed them on the bedside table.

He wondered if Snape loved him back. The thought came to him before he’d realized that’s where his brain was going, and he and immediately backtracked, closing his eyes firmly and willing the thought out of existence. The last thing he needed was for Snape to inadvertently read that thought in his mind. But…but he had already thought it, and it wouldn’t disappear into oblivion now, so he gave in and mulled over the answer. And yes, he decided, cracking open his eyes enough to see Snape dim the light and settle into the bedside chair with a book in hand. Snape probably did feel something like love for him, in his own way. He’d seen quite enough of the man behind his cold, stubborn facade to know what it looked like when he cared about someone or something. He didn’t think Snape had much experience giving or receiving love, but that didn’t mean he was bad at it. He also knew enough of what lay within the professor’s developmentally challenged heart to know that he would find it difficult to say so if he _did_ love someone. And Harry would certainly never ask him.

And…that was okay, he decided. More than okay. He didn’t need to hear words to feel looked out for. Snape always cared more about actions than words anyway, even if he was getting better at the words part.

He reached for the lily charm, grateful that it still hung about his neck, and ran his fingers over the grooves in the flower shaped metal. This one pendant, and the stone that had come before it, meant far more to him than any words Snape could possible gift him with. It meant the world to him, not only because it was his mum’s, but because of how much it had meant to Snape. The man had been willing to relinquish to Harry’s care a part of his past that he’d kept locked up tight for so many years. The charm was a gift, yes, but more than that, it felt like trust. And maybe even a little like love.

Yes, Harry decided, watching as Snape filled up his water glass and then settled in with a book at his bedside.

It was a lot like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The (Almost) End.
> 
> This was the (sort of) last chapter!! But stay tuned for a bonus chapter/epilogue, which will not be in Harry’s or Snape’s POV. (Wait, what? Ooh, the suspense!) ;) It isn't finished yet, but I'm working on it and should have it posted sometime this week.


	61. Epilogue / Bonus Chapter (AKA Dumbledore Is a Scheming Old Coot)

_One month later_

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet for a Saturday afternoon. While the occasional cluster of students made their way to or from their dormitories or the library, most had retreated to their house common rooms after the cold and rain chased them from their outdoor pursuits. A stray broom lay forgotten next to an empty classroom, and Albus vanished it to the spare office in the Hospital Wing alongside the other lost and found items. He always found it remarkable how many items the student population of Hogwarts could lose in one school year.

He smiled as he passed a cluster of second year Slytherins on his way to the dungeons, greeting them by name. He made it a point to learn the names of every student entering Hogwarts, though he was not immune to the occasional memory lapse. The shy smiles and _good afternoon, Headmaster’_ s that he received made it well worth the effort. It was important, he knew, for every child to feel special, particularly children who lived at a boarding school in excess of nine months out of the year.

While hardly infallible, he was proud of his tenure as Headmaster of Hogwarts. He kept the peace between professors, some admittedly easier to manage than others, so that they in turn could shape young minds to take on the future of wizarding Britain. And if he must occasionally sacrifice that peace for the greater good—by employing professors with less than desirable traits in order to keep them close to his oversight or protection, for instance—then he managed to make the best of it. And in at least one case, things were looking up. Rumor had reached Albus’s own ears that Professor Snape had not threatened to expel a single student in nearly three weeks.

It was quite the record.

He was pleased by Severus’s progress of late, and yet he made a mental note to not mention the rumor to the professor, lest he get it in his head to protect his reputation at the expense of some one or other poor unsuspecting youth.

He stopped before his destination, knocking politely on the closed door of the Potions classroom. “Enter!” came Severus’s voice, and Albus smiled as he entered the room and immediately met Harry Potter’s curious eyes. The boy was situated at a desk in the front row of the classroom, not far from where Severus sat in his own desk, and he was stirring the steaming contents of a cauldron in a slow, methodical circle that began to pick up speed.

“Headmaster,” acknowledged Severus. His sharp eyes darted to Harry. “Keep your focus. Remember, four full seconds each turn.”

Harry quickly returned his attention to the cauldron, furrowing his brow in concentration as he slowed his movements.

Albus quietly made his way to the front of the classroom, cautious to not interrupt Harry’s work. He _had_ purposely arrived at the end of their lesson so as to observe how things were progressing, but the boy didn’t need to know that. He made no attempt to hide the rolled-up parchment he carried in his hand. Severus eyed it but didn’t ask. That was, in fact, one of the first of Severus Snape’s many attributes that Dumbledore had learned to appreciate all those years ago: he did not beg for more information than was his due.

Oh, he was a deeply curious man, yes, and had his own ways of finding out information. One could hardly expect less from a skilled spy and an Occlumens. However, he knew Albus well enough to know that any information held in _his_ head would be handed out as he saw fit. No more, no less, and no sooner than Albus decided to do so. And so, outside of his impatience when Albus failed to get directly to a point that he had already decided to make, the younger man rarely bothered to press for information. Once Severus learned the rules of the game, any game, he was quite adept at playing.

Severus rose from his seat. “We’re about done.”

“Of course. No rush, no rush at all,” Albus assured.

“Professor?” said Harry quietly, as if hesitant to interrupt. “I think the potion is finished.”

Albus stood far enough away to not hover, perfectly at ease as he observed Severus and Harry working together to check the consistency of the potion. An untrained eye would see nothing of note in the scene of a professor and student checking over the student’s work, but Albus’s eye was hardly untrained. The importance was in the details, in the give and take of their movements and the ease with which they maneuvered around each other. It was in the way that Harry reached to pick up a vial almost before Severus had set it down. It was in the way Severus murmured a brief word of praise and Harry grinned and subconsciously leaned into his professor’s space; it was in the way Severus did not move away. The two seamlessly set down and picked up and cleaned and moved around each other, as practiced as any dance. There was a familiarity there that Albus had never imagined he might see between the two. It was nearly enough to cause an old man’s eyes to mist.

Yes, he thought, his finger tapping lightly on the scroll of parchment. His plan would work out nicely indeed.

It really was quite simple, in the end.

Two lonely souls, lost, in need of family, and so intricately connected to each other and to a common enemy. He’d known that it would not be simple to overcome the human element, of course (human beings do tend to complicate otherwise simple things), but he had hoped. The moment he’d met eleven-year old Harry Potter, with his kind heart and a child’s capacity for love, Albus had found his own plans to remain pleasantly detached from the boy firmly challenged. The boy was so…likable. And far more ready to love and to forgive than his childhood of neglect should have prepared him to be. Surely, he had thought at the time, Severus only needed time to get to know the child. In time, he would see what Albus saw when he looked at him, particularly as so much of Lily’s character shone through him. And so he left them to warm up to each other in their own time. Certain prophecies cannot be thwarted, after all.

He had not accounted for the depth of Severus’s bitterness.

Throwing them together for Occlumency lessons last year had been his last-ditch effort, an ill-fated experiment borne of desperation. Surely, he had thought, Severus only needed time alone with the boy. If he only were compelled to see into his mind and into his heart, he would find himself as unable to resist Harry’s natural charms as the rest of the Hogwarts staff.

But the bitterness was rooted too deep.

And by then, so was Harry’s pain.

If he had only known that locking them up in Harry’s bedroom in Surrey for a few days would do the trick, he might have maneuvered them into just such a scenario years ago.

The clearing of a throat eased him from his thoughts. “Good afternoon, headmaster,” said Harry politely. He was poised to leave, his Potions textbook and a small bag of supplies clutched to his chest.

Albus smiled. “And a good afternoon to you as well, Harry. I trust lessons are going well?”

Harry grinned and nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I’m learning a lot.” He sneaked a peek at Severus’s retreating back as the professor made his way to the potions stores in his office. Albus could detect no trace of bitterness or upset on the boy’s face that his access to the professor’s own potions stores had been suspended indefinitely. Severus had told him that Harry had accepted the decision gracefully, albeit with chagrin, but it was good to confirm with his own eyes.

“Excellent. I have heard good things of your progress from Professor Snape.”

Harry flushed with pleasure at the words. “Well, I mean, I’ve been working hard. And Professor Snape’s been great, really great, explaining some things I didn’t really understand before.”

“Without scolding?” Albus feigned shock, pleased when it elicited a chuckle from the boy.

“Without _too much_ scolding,” said Harry with a grin.

Albus gave an answering smile, and then Severus was back, ushering Harry out the door to “no doubt squander the rest of your weekend in a haze of teenaged idleness and frivolity.”

“I have your blessing, then?” Harry replied cheekily. His laughter at Snape’s stern look echoed down the hallway as he left the classroom. To Harry’s credit, Severus _had_ hardly put any effort into his glare. Albus had seen sterner looks on Hagrid’s face when he was grousing about his beloved magical creatures.

“You wish to speak with me?” Severus stalked purposefully toward his office door, robes billowing around him, in a clear invitation to follow. He needn’t have bothered with the theatrics, not here, not with Albus. But such displays made him feel larger than his past, more in control of the present, Albus knew, and so he did not mind.

“I trust your classes are going well?” he asked pleasantly as Severus closed the door to his office and they sat in matching chairs in front of the desk. He withdrew a half dozen or so wrapped caramels from his pocket and placed them on the small table between their chairs. He had learned long ago that the younger professor had an aversion to most sweets—a byproduct of some unhappy event in his childhood, Albus theorized but did not press—but everyone has a weakness. And Albus had always been good at discovering a witch or wizard’s weakness, sweets or otherwise.

“Yes,” Severus answered shortly, unwilling as he ever was to play unnecessary games of trivial social conventions, a trait that Albus could not help but view with respect and amusement in turn. The man did, however, snatch a caramel from the small pile and conjure two cups of tea, nudging one toward Albus. “What is it? I doubt you have deigned to visit the dungeons on my day off in order to discuss my teaching strategies.”

Albus placed the scroll of parchment temptingly on the small table between them and smiled when Severus avoided so much as glancing at it. His raised eyebrow told Albus that the ploy to poke at his curiosity was not working, but of course, they both knew that it was. Severus was too intelligent to not be curious, even if he was too stubborn to show it.

“It was generous indeed of you to give of your own day off in order to assist young Harry.”

“He has agreed to not waste my time,” answered Severus simply. “Thus far, he has not.”

“He is performing well, then?”

Severus inclined his head. “Better than I’d expected, though not as well as I’d hoped. We are barely a week into essential sixth year concepts. We took several detours in order to cover lessons he should have learned years ago. The boy did not even know the different emulsifying effects achieved by placing borage or fluxweed into a Stabilizing Potion! As if I had not covered that very topic no less than three times in his fourth year alone,” he groused.

“You regret offering him additional lessons, then?”

Severus shifted. “I did not say that…”

Albus unwrapped a caramel and popped it in his mouth to hide an emerging grin. He enjoyed the sweet smoothness of the candy. Severus really did have excellent taste.

The younger man’s mouth opened as if uncertain what to say. He finally admitted, “The boy is…competent. He will never be a Potions master, but if he continues at this rate, he will have no difficulty achieving a NEWT. He is intelligent and inquisitive. Capable of achieving a functional understanding of most anything he puts his mind to.”

Albus lifted an eyebrow. “High praise coming from you.”

“Yes. Well,” Severus sidestepped before he could be accused of giving glowing praise to any student, “he is regrettably quite selective about what he puts his mind to. It is fortunate that he has finally decided that both Occlumency and Potions are worth learning.”

“Indeed. Any more brushes with extraordinary powers?”

“Not as such.” Severus drummed his fingers on the table and frowned in thought. “I can sense it within him at times. A power…some sort of charge or awareness… _something._ I have no doubt his magical core has been strengthened, but I have witnessed no more incidents or loss of control, and nor has he confided in me of any.”

No, Harry had not experienced a loss of control in weeks. Albus would know; he had been keeping a closer eye on the boy than anyone could have guessed. Not that his watchfulness during the school year was anything new. Even before he knew that Harry Potter was likable, the Boy Who Lived had been important. Albus would not see him lost, either to Voldemort or to his own mind.

“He may be ready for more hands-on lessons by the end of term,” Severus added. “He is still learning to control his mind, but he is picking it up fairly quickly. Perhaps in the spring, his Occlumency skills will reach a sufficient level of stability to support magical experimentation. The sooner he learns to draw upon his increased magical stores and control that power, the better.”

Albus nodded in agreement. “Yes. The sooner the better. Nightmares and powerful magic are not a particularly desirable combination.”

“His sleep has improved, at least.” Severus tapped out a brief rhythm on his glass before his fingers stilled unnaturally. The young spy didn’t have very many tells, but Albus knew them all, including that one.

He heaved a pointed sigh. “Don’t tell me you placed a sleep tracking spell in his bed, Severus.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know about it the moment I did,” the professor shot back.

Albus was tempted to smile, but he held on to his scolding expression. “I have promised you a considerable amount of latitude in your handling of Harry’s academic and emotional wellbeing. This does not, however, mean that I will not chime in with _suggestions_ —” he paused pointedly to emphasize that his suggestions were in fact gently worded orders, “from time to time. Harry has come to look up to you, but he is still entitled to a modicum of privacy.”

Severus pinched his lips in annoyance but conceded. “Fine. I will remove the tracking spell.”

“Thank you, Severus.” They both had the tact not to mention that Albus had waited until after Harry’s nightmares had lessened to bring up the matter. “I am pleased that he is doing well. He seems better rested lately. Happy, even.”

A smile ghosted on Severus’s lips. He chased it away with a sip of tea.

And oh, how that hint of a smile warmed Albus’s heart. This last month had wrought a change in Severus Snape. A subtle change, but there nonetheless. There was a certain lightness in his bearing now that the Dark Mark had vanished. And there was the hint of tenderness behind his eyes when he looked at Harry. The average Hogwarts student may only notice that he did not yell quite as much, but Albus could see the details. He appreciated those details.

To be quite honest, Albus had never expected to care about Severus Snape. It had simply _happened_ over the years, nearly without his own consent. Disgust had somehow turned to tolerance, which turned to a grudging respect, which turned to admiration, which turned to a form of paternal affection that Albus had felt for very few individuals in his long life. He had once seen Severus as little more than a pathetic, desperate Death Eater who would thoughtlessly trade a child’s life away for his own happiness. And while he _had_ been that, he was also…more. Slowly, and with time spent in the man’s company, he had been forced to grudgingly add additional attributes to the list of qualities that made up the man. Intelligence. Cunning. Drive. Wit. Loyalty. He supposed that it sounded strange to count loyalty as a defining characteristic of a turncoat and a spy, and yet it was true. Severus was deeply loyal. Albus had no doubt that the man who had once tried to bargain away Harry’s life would now lay down his own life to protect him.

Albus had always claimed to believe in redemption, but he wasn’t certain he had truly understood the concept until he had met Severus. It saddened him at times to think of the hurting young boy he had once been, of Albus’s own failure to help him, to _see_ him, before he headed down a dark path. Could he perhaps have cut him off at the pass? Rescued him from his darkest tendencies, if only he had taken an interest in the boy while he was still at Hogwarts? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He would never know the answer to that question, and so he rarely gave himself over to thoughts of it.

Perhaps he should have, for he had very nearly made a similar mistake with Harry, leaving him to languish in the care of those who would gladly have destroyed his spirit if they had the power to do so.

But that was past. He had an opportunity to make it up to both young men now, to give the both of them a second chance at the life they should have had. The _family_ they should have had. Assuming Severus took the bait…

“It is fortunate that Harry seems quite motivated of late to do well in his lessons,” Albus said casually.

Severus harrumphed. “Fortunate indeed. Motivation is key with that one.”

“True, true. And have you determined what best motivates young Harry?”

Snape answered quickly, as if the answer were obvious. “Having an attainable goal, I should say. Aside from the fact that he wants to stay alive, he wants to be an Auror.”

“Yes, that is true,” Albus agreed mildly at the oversimplification. Severus would need to be prodded, then. “Do you happen to know _why_ his goal is to be an Auror?”

Severus opened his mouth and then closed it, a frown marring his forehead. “I…hadn’t thought to ask.”

“Perhaps you should. Or perhaps you know him well enough by now to guess the answer. Harry is not so much motivated by accolades or notoriety, is he?” he prompted. “Nor by wealth, nor even by knowledge for knowledge’s sake.”

Severus thought for a moment and gave a small huff of agreement. “No. No, I don’t suppose he is. More’s the pity. Those can be excellent motivators. So can discipline, but—” He broke off and cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes,” said Albus gently. “One must be careful how one applies discipline to a child who has been subject to abuse.”

“I _have_ been more careful in my approach,” he said as if defending himself from an unspoken accusation. As he very well may have been, for this was not the first time they had broached the subject this term. “I tried that approach you mentioned. The…” He waved his hand, searching for the words. Or perhaps unwilling to say them.

“Positive reinforcement?”

“Ridiculous notion in general.” He curled his lip. “Children need boundaries and penalties. Give them too much praise and they think they can walk all over you.”

“And is Harry taking advantage of your less stringent approach?” asked Albus, unconcerned.

“He…” Severus paused, then admitted, “No. If anything, he listens to me more. In a sense. Which. How can that boy be so _contrary?_ ” He threw up a hand. “In prior years, I could feel the disrespect pouring off him in waves, every time he did things that were _supposed_ to be respectful, such as addressing me properly or doing my bidding. And now, even while he continues to forget proper address, and he feels perfectly at ease to argue or push against my instructions, he somehow manages to convey _more_ respect, not less. I’ve no idea how he does it.”

“He does have many talents,” mused Albus.

Severus did not respond, and Albus took advantage of the opportunity to steer the conversation back around. And, sensing that Severus was not in the frame of mind for both introspection _and_ too many guessing games, he spelled out for him, “Do you not, in fact, find Harry’s care for _people_ to be his primary motivator?”

Severus blinked but seemed to welcome the change in direction. “He _does_ have an unusual attachment to his friends.”

“Most teenagers are rather attached to their friends. I would hardly call that unusual,” answered Albus wryly.

“ _He_ certainly wouldn’t,” Severus harrumphed. “I can hear his lecture now on how to make friends and develop a social life. Did you know that he attempted to set up a ‘play date’ for me with Flitwick?”

Albus laughed.

“I am not joking, Albus! He has this idea in his head that I need to make more friends, that I need a confounded _best friend_ or something of the like, as if _I_ were the teenager. Despite my refusal to play along, he is taking it upon himself to dig one up for me. It is maddening!”

He did not point out that Severus had yet to tell the boy to stop in any clear, definitive manner. For all his bluster, there was a glimmer in the man’s eye that betrayed, though he would never, ever admit to it, that he rather enjoyed having someone take an interest in his personal wellbeing. And while Severus would continue to grouse and complain, Albus knew that Harry was observant enough to pick up on his underlying permissiveness. For a spy, Snape could be somewhat transparent when it came to matters of the heart, and for a boy from a neglectful background, Harry could be quite perceptive. It all worked out quite well from Albus’s point of view.

“It might do you good,” Albus said simply. “Though I would perhaps suggest a tête-à-tête with Minerva first. Not that Filius is not an excellent choice of confidante, but Minerva stands a better chance of keeping up with your stubbornness over the long run.”

Severus glared. “I am not twelve, Albus. I am _not_ in the market for a _best friend_.”

“There are worse things to be in the market for.” And because he knew when it was best to let a topic rest, he moved on. “But you are correct: Harry is fortunate to have a natural affinity to forming attachments, even as his relatives failed in showing him how to do so. As it happens, he has proven himself able to form a variety of beneficial attachments of late. Do you not agree?”

“Hmm.” The professor’s lips thinned and he studied Albus through narrowed eyes. “Headmaster,” he all but growled. “What are you scheming?”

“Scheming?” asked Albus innocently.

“You are scheming, without a doubt. You have something on your mind, and I do wish that you would spit it out.” Severus gave him his signature _get on with it, old man_ look, and Albus smiled because that look was always laced with the slightest hint of affection.

“Very well. I shall get to the point.” His smile grew at Severus’s long-suffering stare, though he managed to sober long enough to declare, “The Department of Wizard Family Services is about to make an inquiry into Harry’s guardianship status.”

_That_ got the professor’s attention. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

“Only that the process of severing the Dursleys’ rights is nearly complete. I merely need send the matter through the DWFS as a legal formality, but as Harry Potter is quite a high-profile minor, it will naturally set off an official inquiry.”

“You must have a way to avoid such a thing. We hardly want them to think that _Harry Potter’s_ guardianship is up for grabs. _Or_ for his life to become fodder for the papers.”

“Naturally,” Albus confirmed. “I have the necessary signatures from Harry’s aunt and uncle relinquishing their rights. The severance of guardianship is ironclad and should be enough to keep any inquiries away from the Dursleys’ doorstep. As for the transfer of guardianship, it will be swift. I intend to give Family Services no more than a perfunctory say and very little time to protest. Make it official before they quite know what hit them.”

“So the boy will be under your purview,” Severus guessed.

“Oh, I hardly think that a good idea,” Albus tsked. “I am an old man, not to mention quite occupied by numerous things in need of my oversight. It would be wholly unfair to Harry to take him on only to subject him to a different form of neglect.”

He took a casual sip of his tea, enjoying Severus’s impatience more than he probably should. The younger man lasted an entire half minute before caving. “Albus,” he growled. “If you had any idea of my raising no objections to whatever arrangements you’ve made for the boy, you would spit it out. None of this beating around the bush. So. Whom have you decided to foist the boy upon? The Weasleys?” His grimace showed his own aversion to that idea, though Albus could not deny that the Weasleys had crossed his mind.

“You have an objection to Arthur and Molly?” he asked, raising his eyebrows for good measure. “They have sixfold experience raising boys, after all. Nor are they strangers to danger. We could certainly trust them with his protection.”

“His protection? How can they be expected to protect the most hunted teenager in Britain with seven other children underfoot?”

“That is hardly the case, now, Severus. They only have four children still residing at home, I believe, and two of them are grown. Even with the blood wards no longer in effect, Harry himself will reach the age of majority within the year.”

“Their attention will nonetheless be divided,” Severus said stubbornly. “And he may well be nearly grown in the eyes of the law, but that means little in the real world. He will need guidance and protection well beyond that.”

“You have no other objections to the Weasleys?”

“Of course I have other objections,” he argued, sitting up straight. Albus hid a smile at the fire in the man’s eyes. “He would spend every day in their care worrying for their safety! He already feels responsible for the near-death of his best friend. It will drive him mad to be putting them in harm’s way every single day. He himself would object at being placed with the Weasleys, as much as he might enjoy the idea in theory.” His eyes showed his utter certainty of that conviction, and Albus silently agreed.

“Hmm. It is true that you have developed a keen insight into Harry’s preferences of late. What do you think he would suggest?”

“I…” Severus seemed at a loss for words. He frowned, clearly drawing a blank.

“Remus Lupin?”

“No,” he spat, almost before Albus had finished saying the name. “Not Lupin. Under any circumstances.”

“Is that _your_ preference or do you believe it to be his?”

“Both,” he said, though with slightly less certainty with which he had waved away the Weasleys. “Which is not the point, as I am fairly certain that even you have something better in mind than placing him in the custody of a werewolf!”

“Now, now, Severus,” Albus scolded gently. “Remus has his illness in hand with your potions assistance, as you very well know. And many a werewolf has successfully married and raised a family.”

“Not this werewolf. Not this child,” he countered stubbornly.

Albus held up his hands in exaggerated defeat. “Harry has no family. No godparents. He would without a doubt have half of the wizarding world lining up to take him in if we put out the word, but how many of them would we trust to ensure his safety? How many would be looking out for him and not for their own desire to be close to his fame? We both know that he needs genuine care and protection, not the counterfeit affection that would come with those who know his fame and not _him_.”

“It must be an Order member,” said Severus with a determined nod. “And not someone like Margie Twingle. She couldn’t swat a dragonfly. They must be able and willing to protect him at all costs.”

“No doubt.”

“He is at a delicate age,” Severus said sternly. “He is unspoiled, but that could change. You cannot allow him to be in the charge of someone who will feed into his fame.”

“Yes, I do agree. His new guardian must make Harry’s emotional wellbeing a priority. Someone who can keep him grounded, I think.”

“Exactly.”

“And it would be best if he were to already know his new guardian. Harry has had too many upsets in his short life. He will adjust far better to a familiar face. Someone he is comfortable with.”

Severus nodded in agreement.

“A professor, perhaps.”

Snape frowned. “Surely you cannot be considering McGonagall.”

_Oh, Severus._ Albus held in a smile at how obtuse the usually intelligent man could sometimes be. Instead, he gave a small, unconcerned shrug. “What objections could you have to Minerva? She is his Head of House, after all.”

Severus looked positively scandalized. “She is nearly as old as you—”

“You flatter me. She is barely over seventy—”

“—and she hardly has oversight of her Gryffindors to begin with! The boy needs structure and discipline, not the license to do whatever he damn well pleases!”

“Oh, I hardly think she would allow him to do _whatever_ he pleases.”

“McGonagall is out of the question,” insisted Severus with a stubborn set to his chin.

“You have rather strong opinions on this matter,” Albus observed.

“Of course I do! I took a vow to keep him alive.”

“Alive, yes. You did not take a vow to see him well-adjusted or happy.”

“I…” Severus faltered, then lifted his chin. “And? There is nothing wrong with wanting a child to not be miserable or spoiled.”

Albus nodded and stroked his chin, as if deep in thought. “Back to the drawing board, then. What have we decided so far? Ah, yes: someone young enough to keep up with him, yet old enough to take the responsibility seriously. Who will keep him grounded and unspoiled, see to his emotional and physical wellbeing, even after he turns seventeen. Someone who will give him boundaries and discipline, but who can relate to his past and adjust the _type_ of discipline accordingly. Someone with whom he is familiar and feels comfortable and who desires his happiness in turn. Preferably a Hogwarts professor and an Order member. I might add that a personal connection to his own parents would be a nice bonus, if not a requirement. Hmm. It is a tall order. A tall order, indeed. Any ideas, Severus?”

Finally the light had gone on behind Severus’s eyes, though alongside it was a burgeoning horror. “No.”

“Severus—”

The Potions professor vehemently shook his head. “You are mad for even thinking it.”

“Perhaps,” Albus countered happily. “Fortunately, my bouts of madness have led to some of my best ideas.”

“The very _idea_ is madness, Albus. Complete madness. I know nothing about raising a child.”

“You teach children every day,” Albus pointed out, “and Harry is hardly a toddler.”

“I _tolerate_ children every day. I wouldn’t know what to do with one for any significant amount of time outside the classroom.”

“You seem to be doing just fine with Harry thus far.”

“I teach him _lessons_. Children need…other things. Affection. Advice. Clothing. They need _clothing_ , Albus! I know nothing about buying clothing. I have purchased the same brand of trousers for years by owl order because I hate frequenting the shops! They do not even ask me questions anymore. I simply send a small sum of money and they send me the same as last time! I do not even own any other kind of trousers!”

Albus gave the younger man a sympathetic glance. “You do know that Harry is sixteen. I’m certain he has an idea what clothing he likes, should the eventuality arise that you need to take him shopping.”

“Clothing is not the point!” Severus raved. “The point is that everything will be like clothing! I barely know how to take care of myself. What makes you think I would know what a _teenager_ needs?”

“Because over the past three months, I have seen you grow into a mentor young Harry responds to. You _already_ look out for his needs, Severus,” he said gently, “More so than any other adult in his life at present.”

“At Hogwarts! As his professor! Not in a personal capacity, or in my own home—” He cut himself off with a horrified grimace. “My home is barely livable. You must know that. It is old and sits empty most of the year. I cannot remember the last time I gave it a decent cleaning or checked it for needed repairs. I could not possibly bring someone there to _live_.”

“You are welcome to borrow the services of the Hogwarts house-elves. I daresay little Dobby would jump at the chance to prepare Harry Potter’s new home.”

“Even clean, it is…not fit, Albus. It is small and—and _decrepit_. He would shudder to live in such meager surroundings.”

“Severus,” Albus said gently, “you said yourself that Harry is not spoiled. He spent much of his childhood sleeping in a cupboard and dressing in his cousin’s castoffs. I imagine that, should you give him a room of his own and provide basic necessities, he will feel quite fortunate indeed. He is not one to care about appearance or affluence.”

Severus blinked, then shook his head stubbornly. “No. I am serious, Albus. About more than a _house_. I may no longer be a marked Death Eater, but my soul will always carry a dark mark from my past choices. I am stubborn and resentful and unable to let go of a grudge. I cannot even let go of my grudge against the boy’s own father, for Merlin’s sake, even though I’ve tried! I am _no good_ for what you ask!”

“That you have tried to overcome your grudge is a testament to how far you have come. Not so long ago, attempting to do so would not have even entered your mind.”

Severus clenched his lips for a long moment, then let out a breath. “I am not the type, Albus, and he would not wish it. We have barely overcome our past in order to form a decent rapport. Anything more is too much, too soon. It is impossible.”

“Very well,” he sighed.

Severus narrowed his eyes. “ _Very well?_ Don’t play games, old man. I know you haven’t given in so easily.”

Albus took a leisurely sip of his tea. “I am not playing games, Severus,” he only half-lied. “I promised you once that I would not force you and Harry together in a capacity to which you objected. I intend to keep that promise. And I hardly think it ideal or fair to either of you to force such an important arrangement against your will.”

“No. It would not be,” Severus said slowly, suspicion clear on his face. Which was entirely fair, considering how well he knew the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

“I only ask for one small favor.”

“Of course you do.” Severus’s lips fell into a grim line.

“Help me to determine an ideal placement.”

“Surely you can come up with something.”

“And yet you have already objected to my very best ideas,” said Albus pointedly. They both knew that Severus couldn’t argue with that, so he went on, “You are spending a considerable amount of one-on-one time with Harry this term. You have a unique insight as to what he needs in a guardian.”

“And if an ideal placement cannot be found?” asked Severus stiffly.

Albus gave an exaggerated shrug. “I suppose you might then reconsider taking on the role yourself. _All_ I ask, Severus,” he cut off the beginnings of an objection, “is that you _consider_ the matter.”

“So that’s your game. Force me to mull over the horrid selection of candidates until I am convinced that only I can do the job.”

Albus smiled. “Should you find a reasonable candidate, I will certainly consider their merits. Should you not find one, I should think that you would not object to doing whatever it takes to keep young Harry safe.” Severus glared until Albus, still smiling, gestured at the scroll of parchment between them. “For you. Until you’ve made up your mind.”

He snatched the scroll as if only now noticing it, though Albus knew him well enough to surmise that he had been actively curious about it since the moment it had been placed before him. He unrolled it and his eyes scanned the pages. His face was carefully blank, though his hands betrayed a tremor.

“These are guardianship papers.”

“Yes.”

“Our names are already on it.” He whipped it around and furiously jabbed a finger at first one name, then the other. “ _Harry Potter. Severus Snape!_ ”

“I came prepared. But of course, another name can easily be substituted, should we come up with a suitable alternative placement,” an eventuality that Albus was almost certain would never come to pass. He knew the value of a visual aid, and of leaving in Severus’s hands such a strong reminder of what could be. It would only take a signature… “As I said, Severus, I will not force you. Keep the documents. Mull it over. Let me know what you come up with.”

Severus rubbed his temples, visibly deflating. “I would ruin him. You know I would.”

“You would be good for him.”

“We would murder each other inside of a day.”

“That may have been the case previously, but you have both recently and unpredictably developed the ability to communicate. That should head off any murderous tendencies shortly after they arise.”

“Harry would not wish it,” Severus repeated softly.

“And you? What do you wish?” The man had no answer, and after few moments, Albus added gently, “Think on it. And once you have, consider speaking with him about his own wishes. You might be surprised what you find out, on both counts.”

Severus seemed to run out of arguments then, though he would no doubt come up with many more in the weeks to come. Not that Albus minded, though he would very much prefer the matter be concluded by the end of term. For now, the professor needed to convince himself that he was the right man to see to Harry’s wellbeing far more than he needed to listen to Albus’s arguments in favor of the arrangement.

He stood. “Well. I should leave you to your thoughts. And besides, I have another visit or two to make today.”

“You have more orphans to foist onto unsuspecting bachelors?” Severus griped halfheartedly.

“Only the one,” Albus said pleasantly. He lay a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. “Harry is fortunate to have you in his life, Severus, in whatever capacity you choose your involvement to be.” He squeezed the shoulder and let go.

“This won’t work,” said Severus as he rose to his feet, his voice not quite as strong as before. “This trick of yours, it won’t work.”

They both already knew that it stood a good chance of working, and so Albus simply smiled and headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, watching over his shoulder as Severus opened a drawer in his desk, carefully placed the parchment within, and closed it. His eyes lingered on the drawer for several long seconds before he withdrew a key from his pocket and locked it. But the matter would not be locked away from his thoughts, Albus knew. Severus could be quite obsessive when he had a bone to chew on. He would doubtless give weeks over to convincing Albus that he was the wrong man for the job, all the while warming up to the idea—an idea made quite tangible by the ready-to-sign documents locked in his own desk. Harry would do the rest, albeit unknowingly, now that Severus was no longer immune to the boy’s natural charms.

It really _was_ quite simple in the end.

Two lonely souls, lost, in need of family, and desirous of _belonging_. It had not been simple to overcome the human element, of course, but his hope had not been in vain. Severus had only needed the opportunity to get to know the child. He now saw the boy Albus had seen from the beginning, and he was seen by Harry in return.

Certain prophecies cannot be thwarted after all. Not by the depth of Severus’s bitterness, nor by the breadth of Harry’s pain.

And already their newly formed relationship of camaraderie and mentorship had soothed some of those old wounds. Albus could only hope that a more formal arrangement could pave the way to true healing for both of his boys. He eased open the door, gave Severus a nod in parting, and felt true joy at the first, tiny spark of longing in the man’s eyes. Yes, he knew then. This would most definitely work.

The door closed with a soft snick. His work here was done, for now. And a job well done it was, he decided as, with a smile and a low whistle, he picked up his pace through the halls of Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for going on this journey with me! It means the world to me that you stuck with me through 61 chapters with some angsty plot twists and turns, and that some of you who came over from other sites even stuck with me through a decade-long hiatus. (This story was started in 2007, gah!) You’re the best!! And do you know, not including notes and review responses, this story is about 375,000 words long? That’s a 1000+-page novel!! That was NOT my intention when I started OME, but there you go. Sometimes the fanfiction writing takes over and you get wordy, and people keep reading, so you get drunk on the permission to keep churning out words, and you can’t say goodbye to your characters anyway until you get them in a good enough spot, and before you know it your story is so long that you just go with it and hope people forgive you for the time they must take out of their lives to read it. And anyway, Snape and Harry had a LOT of angst to get through; they basically weren’t going to get along in less than 1000 pages. So. Yep. Nonetheless, I do plan to make my future stories shorter and more succinct. ;)
> 
> Sequel Notes:
> 
> I have plans for a sequel, so if you would like to be alerted, please subscribe to me as an author and/or to this story. I’ll probably add a chapter to the end as a “sequel is up!” alert. (That’s not against the rules in AO3, is it? I don’t actually know...if it is, somebody tell me and I won’t do that.) ;) Just don’t expect the sequel to come out soon. I plan to take a writing break, then work on some other projects first. For now, please enjoy a completed O Mine Enemy for an indefinite period of time. :)
> 
> Here’s a mishmash of information about my plans for a sequel:
> 
> (First off, I have notes and a rough outline of the sequel, but my plans can and often do change, so don’t take my current plans as gospel.) The focus will be on Snape and Harry growing from close teacher/student into a guardian/father/son-type relationship. The current plan is to follow them through the end of the war and Voldy’s defeat. But it will not follow the same timeline or plot as canon and will likely focus on Harry’s sixth year only. There are several subplots that I was not able to give appropriate depth or time to in this story that I’d like to address in the sequel. So if you’re left wanting more resolution of Snape’s past animosity with James Potter, you want to know what the Malfoys have been up to lately, you think there’s more to tell about Brooks than his teaching style, or you want to see more interaction between Harry’s friends and Snape, never fear! There are plans! :) Please do note that while I write what I want to write, I do sometimes take inspiration from readers, so feel free to drop me a review or message with things that you would love to see!


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